


The Phoenix and the Raven

by EvilFluffyBiteyThing



Series: The Silver Swords Trilogy [2]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Demon Hunters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, No Romance, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-11-12 13:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 98,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11162415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFluffyBiteyThing/pseuds/EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: As the year draws to a close, Sir Richard Rich is becoming more accustomed to his task as Second to the Silver Sword Thomas Cromwell.  The King has married Jane Seymour, and all wait in hope that she shall bear him a prince.But dark forces still circle the Court, and, if all is not to be lost, they must protect the Queen from the malevolence of Lamashtu - but she has plans of her own that seem harmless, but could well destroy them all.





	1. Settling Down to Business

The wide open space of the Tiltyard echoes with the sharp crack of wood striking wood that is thrown back by the surrounding trees that have begun to shed their reddened leaves to the earth. We have been at this for nearly two hours now, and I feel as though my right arm shall never work properly again.

I have, however, managed to prove that I am able to fend off the attacks that Thomas Cromwell is flinging at me, though his movements are slower than they might be if he were truly fighting, as I doubt that I could stand in his way if he were to do that. I am not a born fighter, and I have never received tuition to this degree - but then, as I am a lawyer by trade, why should I have?

I think it must be close to a year since that night in Hampton Court when my life changed course, and I tied myself to the fate of a man tasked to battle in a war of which I was entirely unaware. That the King's Secretary, now Lord Chancellor, belonged to a shadowed order of warriors known only for the silver-rich swords they carried meant nothing to me; I was too busy loathing him for being the base-born son of a blacksmith - and resenting the fact that he outranked me - for I was, as I still am, the Solicitor General.

When he is not Thomas Cromwell, he is called 'Raven' - as this was the sigil assigned to him before he was sent to England. When I am not Sir Richard Rich, I am his Second - assigned to grant him all the aid that I can. I think I am supposed to be better at this then I am, but I was not intended to play such a part. That was meant to be the late Cardinal Wolsey - said to be the most highly trained and prepared Second anyone had ever known.

Seeing that I am too tired to continue, Cromwell retrieves the wooden staff that I have been using, and returns it to a rack in one of the weapons sheds. Behind us, the walls of the Palace of Placentia disguise the fact that the court of Henry, Eighth of that name, is in dire need of new accommodation. The sheer numbers of people present can only have one outcome, and we have reached it. One of the other reasons that we are down at the Tiltyard as often as we are is to escape the almost constant presence of the growing reek of waste that has even begun to permeate the offices that are more normally fragranced by the familiar and comforting aromas generated by enormous quantities of paper and ink.

"Come, Richard," Cromwell is irritatingly cheerful, "William has secured a fine perry that needs to be sampled; I am sure he said he had found some curd tarts to accompany it."

The possibility of such a sweetmeat catches my attention at once. Wealthy though we are, such delicacies are usually destined for the tables of the higher nobles, and for the King. Mere courtiers, such as Cromwell and I, rarely see such fare - though it must be said that we eat well. Until I was obliged to learn swordplay, I had not noticed exactly _how_ well. It is only now, that my clothes are loosening in response to a markedly reduced girth, that I realise that I had been indulging rather more than I ought.

There are bundles of dried lavender at the doors and windows of Cromwell's apartments: an attempt to banish the vague atmosphere of sewage that seems to be everywhere now. The end of the Summer has helped somewhat, as the river had become so offensive that travelling on a wherry was becoming a true ordeal to be avoided wherever possible. The encroaching coolness of autumn, however, has brought the stench of the Thames down to a tolerable level, which is just as well, as I have not been to Grant's Place, where my Library is held, for some weeks.

I still find it odd to say 'my' Library. It once belonged to Wolsey - as he established it. It's only over the last few months that I have begun to feel comfortable referring to it as belonging to me. Perhaps because it is during those months that I have really accepted my new task as Cromwell's Second. My decision was made very much on the spur of the moment; when I noticed that, regardless of the cold, emotionless exterior he normally displays to all about him, underneath he was deeply, miserably lonely. Lonely to the point, it seemed, that he was willing to accept a Second who despised him rather than have no-one at all. Something prompted me to answer that unspoken appeal. I am still not entirely sure what that something was.

William, Cromwell's faithful manservant, has - as promised - set out the perry, but with three cups. There is also an inviting pile of the equally-promised curd tarts, almost certainly purloined from a batch large enough to conceal their disappearance. We are obliged, however, to wait before we fall upon them like ravenous dogs, as it is clear that we are awaiting company.

Sure enough, William answers a brisk knock at the door to reveal Thomas Wyatt, a courtier, poet and emerging diplomat; and also the third member of our little band. Already accomplished with weapons, he has no need to join us for our regular sparring sessions, though he has practised with me whenever Cromwell was not free to do so. One of the tallest men at court, his worth as a spy would seem somewhat limited - but for the fact that he does much to conceal his intellect behind a screen of buffoonery that has made him many friends. All appreciate his bright humour - as do we.

"Curd tarts!" he proclaims delightedly, for he sees them as rarely as we do, "Who did you bribe to obtain these, William?"

William looks quite offended at the suggestion that money has changed hands; he would far rather that he had been accused of stealing them - as that is, largely, what he did. Wyatt laughs cheerfully, and seats himself with us.

"What news, Tom?" Cromwell asks, pouring him a glass of the perry. As both Cromwell and I are far too prominent - and, if I am truly honest, too disliked - to capture the kind of court gossip that can be most helpful to us, Wyatt is our window on a world denied.

"All is quiet, Thomas," Wyatt reports, "Queen Jane is proving to be the most compliant and retiring creature - perfect, it seems, for his Majesty's temperament." His expression flickers for a moment, and we both know that he is thinking of her unfortunate predecessor, for whom he still carries a torch. Unlike Jane, Anne Boleyn was highly intelligent, very quick witted and blessed - or perhaps cursed - with a fiery temperament that had inflamed the King's passion when he was trying to win her favour, but repelled him once he had it. Though Wyatt has long forgiven us for our participation in her downfall, we know that her death still haunts him. As it haunts us.

He shakes himself, and continues, "Needless to say, he is expecting her to be with child almost immediately - and seems most put out that she is not. There is already one mistress behind the arras, but the Queen seems quite willing to accept that she is there for one purpose - and it is for night-time duty; not for night-time recreation."

I sigh inwardly - Wyatt puts it quite crudely, but he is right. As Queen, Jane's role is not to rule, nor to be a helpmate. She is to bear a son - and that is all. Henry is deferential to her as his Queen, and shows all the signs that one would expect of a loving husband - albeit one who considers himself superior to the constraints that marriage vows are supposed to place upon him. He has her at his side for all Royal occasions, and visits her for the purposes of creating a child; but it is to other women that he turns for entertainment.

I was rather like that myself, once, until I found that I no longer had the time. My work as a Second has seen to that, though Cromwell has never again sought female company following the loss of his wife and daughters, and that somewhat monastic devotion to his mission has also prompted me to reconsider my own philandering. I think my own wife is quite grateful, though my duties keep me away for most of the time, so she is rarely obliged to share my company - perhaps she is grateful for that, too.

"She seems not to be disheartened," Wyatt adds, sounding quite surprised, "Far from it, in fact. She does not begrudge him his amours, but instead immerses herself in Queenly duties; and all love her for it."

That is also true. Since Henry married, he has generally seemed to be in a far better temper than he was when married to Anne. Certainly he has not struck Cromwell for some considerable time - something he seems content to do with impunity when the mood takes him - nor has he insulted him. He would not do so with any of the grand Nobles that surround him, but his Lord Chancellor is not a Noble, and thus accepts his role as the King's whipping boy without complaint. Given his abilities with blades and fists, I am amazed sometimes at his restraint.

The atmosphere at Court has lightened considerably: people are less afflicted by the tensions that once reigned in these halls. It seems that Jane has been a true balm that has eased the fractures and lesions inflicted by the Boleyns and Howards when they attempted to snatch all that they could from Anne's rise. The only tragedy from that was our inability to save Anne - who was innocent of their calumnies, as were the four entirely blameless men who died with her. That cloud only seems to lie over us now.

Evening is drawing in, and we stay for supper. We seem to do that most nights - whether it be in Cromwell's apartments or mine. Wyatt's are not large enough to host us, and he does not have access to a good cook, so he cannot serve us anything to match the fine roasted capon that we devour with the enthusiasm of men who have been fighting each other for the entire afternoon.

Seated beside the fire with a cup of warmed hippocras, I retrieve the piece of paper that has been occupying my attention from the moment that I found it. I don't like to recall that night too closely, as I almost lost my life - and the remedy for it was so horrible that even now the memory of it is inclined to break my sleep on occasion. The paper itself, however, is such a fascinating puzzle that even the slowness of my progress in deciphering it does not disturb me unduly. The darkness we faced is defeated - and that which sent it seems to have retired for the moment.

None of us are fool enough to think that the demoness Lamashtu has withdrawn entirely from the fray - but we have certainly not let the opportunity afforded to us for preparation slip by. I shall never be any use with a ranged weapon, but at least now I can acquit myself well with a sword. I wish, though, that I were better acquainted with my Library. Perhaps I should visit it tomorrow - my workload has settled for the moment, so I could escape for a day - possibly more. While it means running the gauntlet of the formidable Margaret Dawson for arriving unannounced, she is always welcoming once she has allowed her annoyance to be vented. Yes. I shall go to Grant's Place tomorrow.

* * *

I am tired this morning, having slept badly. The dreams I sometimes have make me fearful to sleep again - and certainly last night I was loath to do so. I am running, always running; and the demon Zaebos is always behind me - getting closer and closer. But I find that my legs refuse to obey me, and seem to almost be dragging through something thick - like honey, or mud. I always seem to wake before I am captured - but each time I do, the darkness of the bedchamber convinces me that he is somewhere near, a dilemma worsened by the fact that I have no means to make a light, and search for him. Even though I saw him driven to dust by the silver in Cromwell's sword as it skewered him front to back, he still seems alive to me, and I wonder if he will ever truly be gone.

I have not dressed richly, leading the Wherryman to think I am a servant. His conversation is tiresome, but at least it does not mention Revenants - instead he concentrates upon how fortunate I am to work in the Palace, and asks if I have met the Queen.

"God's blessings upon her," he goes on, "Fair as the new morning, she is. Better for all than that Witch-whore Anne."

The insult startles me somewhat, as I am unused to hearing such words. The name 'Boleyn' is not to be spoken in the Palace; and as we do not speak of her, to hear another do so is rather unexpected. That she is so hated, even in death, shocks me to some degree, as I never knew her to be anything other than educated, intelligent and cultured, and all who were present at her execution fell to their knees to honour her courage at the last; including Cromwell. It was her family that did the damage. Outside the palace walls, however, she is reviled for supplanting the beloved Queen Katherine.

He must see the startled look on my face, as he changes the subject quickly; suggesting that we shall have a hard winter - something to do with the gulls, or perhaps strange shaped clouds. I have no interest in superstitions, so I leave him to blabber on. The river is rough today, and the wherry bobs unnervingly in the heavy swell - which is more than sufficient to give me an excuse to ignore him, as I would sink like a stone if the boat was to overturn.

I am most relieved to abandon the boat at the Tower wharves, though the prospect of making my way to Shoreditch on foot is never welcome, given the state of the roads. As usual, the people around me are concerned with their own affairs, and my journey to Grant's Place is uneventful.

My arrival at the house, however, is not. Goodwife Dawson is in fine voice again, berating me for being as inconsiderate as the Master for my failure to make my intentions known to her. As I have learned from her Master how to endure her tirades, I let it wash over me, for I know that once she has calmed, she shall offer me ale and bread, and all shall be well again. I have a duffel with me, so she knows that I intend to stay the night. Once I am seated in the Chamber with the secret door, she bustles away to see to preparing a room for me.

As I sup at the ale, and break away some bread, I decide to myself that I should stop calling this Chamber by such a long title. From now on, it is 'My' Chamber. After all, it is the way to 'My' Library, so it seems appropriate to lay full claim to it. Pleased, I reach for my cup, only for it to tip, and spill its contents across the desk. Startled at my clumsiness, I am obliged to scrabble for the napkin that lies under the bread to mop up the mess. Clearly I am more tired than I realised.

I have no particular plan of research; but instead will spend the rest of the day immersed in the Great Index, taking time to learn where things lie in as much detail as I can. Fortunately, I am blessed with a good memory, and this has been my plan of action for the last few months. While I could not hope yet to match Wolsey's knowledge of his extraordinary collection, mine is improving apace - helped in no small measure by the marginalia that I am adding as I make my discoveries. The Index is, of course, now mine, too.

I emerge, blinking, into the last of the daylight, to the aroma of roasting meat. A side of beef has been turning for much of the day, and, while all shall enjoy it, the choice cut will be set aside for me. Goodwife Dawson has even managed to secure a claret, though it is not of the quality that would be found at the Palace. The increase in her household budget - to accommodate the two newest servants - has clearly been beneficial.

I sup alone, as there are no members of the Cromwell family at Grant's Place. They live a short walk away at Austin Friars, and - other than Gregory, his son - know nothing of this house. Gregory is the last of his immediate family, however, though I have only met the boy once. Cromwell has hopes for him to enter Royal service in time, but first he must complete his education, so he is rarely in London. He certainly has no knowledge of his Father's clandestine occupation.

As soon as I have eaten, I return to the books, this time to research the paper that I still have safe. I know so little about the objects to which it refers. I cannot even work out what they are, though the repeated presence of the word _Eldur_ suggests that they are two types of the same thing. The language itself is archaic - which I had already deduced at the moment I found the paper, but I cannot be certain of its age. It might date from as far back as the time of Alfred, or perhaps earlier. My researches have not, as yet, revealed much more than that which confirms what I already know. The fact that I am tired does little to aid my work.

Eventually, I give up for the night, and leave the matter to rest. As do I.

I return to the Library the following morning, and carry on with my exploration of the Index, testing myself as best I can on my work the previous day. The one thing that I have gained over the period of time during which I have been exploring is a towering respect for Wolsey's ability to organise and categorise all that he placed here. I have, more-or-less, become fully acquainted with his cataloguing system - to the point that I could now add items myself without disrupting it. What I lack, however, is his immediate knowledge - that intimacy that enables the scholar to know, almost without checking, where a document lies. It must have taken Wolsey years - and I have had no more than a few months. I am clearly being too impatient with myself…

My attention is caught by an odd sound - almost a snort, or perhaps a grunt. Is someone in the Library with me? I don't recall being followed down the steps - but, as I have discovered several times to my cost, my awareness of my surroundings is limited at best. It is quite possible that I am not alone down here.

Taking up the lantern, I conduct a search, my nerves jangling somewhat. I loathe the fact that I seem to be unable to approach any uncertain situation without trembling. No matter how much Cromwell suggests that I have found depths of courage within myself, at moments like this, I struggle to believe him.

There is no one present, and I chew briefly at my lip in disgust at my foolishness. I am supposed to be a Second: starting at my own shadow is not acceptable. Irked, I return to the Index and continue my work until my growling stomach drives me back out in search of something to eat.

Rather than leave me to dine on my own, Goodwife Dawson instead sits with me, apparently intent on discussion. This is rather disconcerting, as she is not normally so forward, and I pause, a chunk of beef on the point of my knife halfway to my mouth.

"Forgive my intrusion, Mr Rich," She begins, almost meekly, "I would not normally speak of such matters to any but Master Cromwell, but I think you would wish to know, as it was your good self and Mr Wyatt that brought her here."

My mouth still open, the knife still poised, I nod, uncertainly.

"Since she came into my care, young Molly Taverner has shown an astonishing aptitude for reading and writing," the Goodwife tells me, "I have never seen the like. As she was interested in the books, I thought it worthwhile to teach her, as there are none here who seem to be able to calculate so much as a pair of figures, much less a column in an account."

I remember Molly - so small, so rough, so afraid. A lowly drudge in the Palace, her young man had vanished - and her insistence that he would not have abandoned her had led to our discovery of an unholy ritual in preparation. Thanks to her, six lives had been saved, including that of the youth to whom she had sworn herself. Since then, she has been here - and, it seems, learning apace.

"She has learned so quickly - faster than I could have imagined anyone could - and her memory!" she smiles, "She has but to briefly read a list of items, and she remembers them all. Already I have placed her in charge of the Kitchen inventory, for she remembers all with such ease. She has been a great help to me."

I set the knife down on my plate again, as I realise that I look an idiot with it poised where it is, "I'm pleased to hear it. I shall apprise Mr Wyatt of her progress."

Rising from her chair, Goodwife Dawson nods, bobs a polite curtsey, and leaves me to my dinner.

I return to the Library once more. I am never tired of books, or the written word - it was that which sent me into the legal profession as much as anything else. Seeking out knowledge seems to be in my blood far more than fighting or violence; I almost thrive on it. As in the morning, I remain engrossed until driven back out by hunger. An uncharitable observer might suggest that I have made no progress - but I have now, more or less, committed the cataloguing of two sets of shelves entirely to memory, and I would wish to stay and build upon that. That, alas, is not possible, as I cannot remain away from my desk any longer. I shall sleep tonight, and return to Placentia on the morrow.

My decision made, I seek out Goodwife Dawson to see what she has for my supper.

* * *

The river is considerably rougher upon my return to the Tower, as a solid autumn gale sweeps across the city. Consequently, I have some difficulty persuading a Wherryman to accept me to return to Greenwich, as the river's width and depth at that point always increases the choppiness of the water, and puts the small boats at risk of being swamped. Eventually, one consents, on the condition that I pay a considerable gratuity for the risk he is taking. That said, if he can get me back to the Palace without drowning me, I would pay him almost an entire year's pay for the service. The fact that he is clearly almost as frightened as I am is less than reassuring.

We take far longer than usual, as the Wherryman keeps his doughty little vessel as close to the banks as he can. We are thrown about horribly, and I have to bite my tongue twice to stop myself from screaming aloud as we pitch violently one way or the other. Never before, in my entire life, have I been more glad to step ashore. The gratuity I pay the Wherryman is, in my gratitude, twice that which we agreed - given that he may not wish to risk returning until the gale subsides, so he will both lose trade and need somewhere to sit out the disruption. I just wish that my knees would stop shaking, as I return to my apartments to change out of my befouled clothes. It may not be summer anymore, but the river is still quite revolting, and I have been thoroughly soaked.

As there is still an afternoon to get through before I host supper for Cromwell and Wyatt, I repair to my desk in the offices to see what has been set there in my absence. To my relief, there is not much - and what little there is will take not much time at all. The King is too contented at present to be interested in litigation, so my workload has eased rather. I entertain no assumptions, however, that such a lull will actually last.

Cromwell is busy over some documents, Wriothesley leaning over his shoulder and muttering something; presumably observations covering whatever it is that the document is about. Elsewhere, the clerks are busy at their work, drafting, filing or carrying messages. I feel quite surplus to requirements, and depart again in search of Wyatt to pass on Goodwife Dawson's news.

By the time we gather to sup, I am not surprised to see that Cromwell has abandoned his finery again, and is in that rough suit of black clothing that I have long since started calling his 'hunting' garb. John, my manservant, had earlier laid out the set of black clothing that I have for that same purpose, presumably upon instructions received via William. It appears that I am to join the Raven on his hunt tonight, then; part of my ongoing instruction as a Second. I cannot help but wonder if Wolsey was required to do this when he was first learning the task.

Wyatt does not normally join us on such excursions, as he considers his eavesdropping in the Hall to be of equal importance, "Ah." He says, cheerfully, "The burglars are back."

Cromwell smiles at his joke, but is soon quite serious again, "You may well soon be obliged to join us, Tom. The number of raveners is increasing. No sooner have I dispatched one, than another appears. I have never seen them in such numbers."

I look at him, surprised, "When did this start to happen?"

"Not long ago - until about a week past, they would arrive at their usual pace. Keeping them controlled has become an easier matter now that Zaebos is no more. I can concentrate upon them with my full attention - your presence as my Second has also helped upon that score."

I swallow, nervously, "So I am no longer to attend as an observer?"

"For the time being, I would rather that you remained unseen." He admits, then gives me one of his more piercing glances, "Your swordplay is not as far along as I would have expected, given the time that you have put into it."

I feel my face burn with embarrassment, but he is looking at me in a fashion that suggests not criticism, but concern, "I suspect that you are not applying yourself as fully as you could. Am I correct?"

I stare at the floor, and try to think of an answer; but I cannot.

"No matter," Cromwell says, his tone of voice announcing that he is happy to change the subject, "Continue your observances. We can return to the Tiltyard on the morrow."

Our hunt is short, and fruitful. We come upon the expected ravener within half an hour of leaving my quarters, and it is soon dispatched. Cromwell looks highly disappointed to have had such an easy time - he is not used to such a quick kill. Given the speed at which they normally move, neither am I.

"This is most strange," he admits, as we make our way back to the apartments we left less than an hour ago, "They come here, do nothing and seem almost willing to fall upon my blades. I have never seen such a thing before."

"Do you think Lamashtu to be behind it?" I venture, though I am not sure that I think this likely.

"I have no idea," He admits, "It seems an odd thing to do - why dispatch Raveners to the court to do nothing but cause me to chase them? It is not as though her Majesty is yet with child, so what is to be gained?"

"Mild satisfaction, perhaps?" I venture, "You did, after all, disrupt her plans to destroy the Court."

The next three nights follow this exact same pattern. Always, we emerge together to hunt; always there is a ravener easily found. Always - the ravener seems most disinterested in giving him a real fight. I cannot help but wonder if there is a larger plan at work, though I am at a loss to work out what it might be.

"I agree," Cromwell admits, when I discuss my thoughts with him, "I wonder if I am being gulled - to think that my opponents are not as strong as they once were. I am not fool enough to do that. Do they think that I might not bother to bring my swords?"

We continue to venture out each night for a week - and it is ever the same. They give so little trouble that I am beginning to wonder if Cromwell will start to assign their dispatch to me - and I almost wish that he might.

But then, we should always be careful what we wish for.

Once again, we are hunting, and once more, a ravener is in our sights. As has become the regular pattern, it seems almost to be waiting for us - though I withdraw to the shadows of the passageway as I always do. I am not ready to fight one of these beasts yet. At least, I do not consider myself to be.

The fight seems ready to take the same turn that the previous battles have - nothing more than a quick skirmish that will end in a silver-bitten beheading and the obliteration of the demon to dust. Even I am becoming bored of these encounters, so I cannot imagine how tired Cromwell must be of them.

It happens suddenly - unexpectedly. As he is engaged with one ravener, another one drops from the low roofs above to land at his back, undetected as his landing was covered by the scuffle of the fight. Without hesitation, I call a warning as loudly as I dare, but it serves only to warn the creature that I am present, and suddenly it is staring at me.

I fight down the urge to run, as the ugliness of the creature is bad enough when it is occupied elsewhere, but far, far worse now that it is aimed at me. Instead, I draw the silvered poniard that is the only weapon I possess of any use to me now - and emerge from the shadows of the passageway. Then it moves - with that deadly swiftness that so frightened me the first time I saw one of these creatures. And it is interested in my throat.

Instinct immediately controls me, and I drop to the ground to allow it to pass over me and skid across the damp cobbles as it scrabbles with its clawed hands and feet for purchase. I am not agile, not like Cromwell, and I am also scrabbling to rise - but I am on my feet again and the poniard is held in readiness. Behind me, I can hear the sound of increased activity - as that ravener has also opted to fight at its full ability. Cromwell cannot help me: I must help myself.

Where the hell has this come from? Didn't he say that only one ravener ever occupies a territory at one time? Why are there two? I have no time to ask myself any more pointless questions, as the hideous creature leaps at me. My strike is absolutely blind, but, to my astonishment, it makes its mark, and the ravener is pinned upon the blade. It hisses and spits, trying even now to sink its teeth into my face - but the silver does its work. In moments, it is falling to dust, and I sink back to the ground, almost faint with relief.

The hand on my shoulder makes me yelp in fright, which rather ruins my heroic moment; but Cromwell is standing over me, having dispatched his ravener too. He looks most pleased with me, "Well done, Richie, well done. But for you I would have been lost - and you have your first kill."

Quite.

He helps me to my feet, but I can see the tension in his eyes - we both know that raveners do not share territory - the second one should not have been present. Why it did what it did, we cannot know for certain, but we both have the same suspect. Even Cromwell, despite his conviction that he does not speculate.

Only fear of something more powerful would drive creatures so resolutely solitary to stand together in the same place. They are afraid of that something - and that something can only sensibly be Lamashtu. All we cannot be certain of is her motive. Is she toying with us? Testing us, perhaps? Maybe she hopes that one of us might die in combat. Me, for choice, I suspect - after all, I am far more vulnerable to one of these things than Cromwell, and she almost certainly knows that he would be left not only vulnerable himself for the loss of his Second, but also bereft - which is just as dangerous. It was luck that guided my poniard home tonight - not skill; and luck will only go so far.

Suddenly, my need to translate that paper appears to have become much more urgent.


	2. Welcome to Whitehall

Cromwell is summoned to meet with the King before business begins for the day, and it is some time before he returns to the offices. As soon as he arrives, he immediately takes Wriothesley to one side, and they confer. I notice the Clerk's eyes rise in astonishment, before Cromwell shakes his hand. His expression then becomes slightly apologetic, and Wriothesley sighs visibly. Whatever the first message was, I cannot fathom - but I can guess the second, purely from their faces. We must prepare ourselves to move - and it is not a moment too soon.

September is at a close, with rain and gales that have not abated for nearly three days. Consequently, the middens and cesspools are starting to become waterlogged, and the 'sweetening' cannot be delayed any longer. Now that the risk of plague or the sweat has declined with the summer heat, I suspect our destination shall be Whitehall, or possibly the old palace at Westminster - though I should much prefer Whitehall, as it is more newly built and, consequently, conforms to more modern living standards than the palace formerly occupied by the Plantagenets. That said, either would do for choice, being in considerably easier reach of Grant's Place than Placentia, Hampton Court or, worst of all, Windsor Castle.

My speculations are interrupted by a sudden sharp clapping of hands as Cromwell demands our attention, "I have two announcements to make," He begins, "The first is likely to be more welcome than the second, so I shall begin with that. The King's Grace has decreed that Mr Wriothesley is to be appointed in my former role as King's Secretary." He smiles, and the clerks dutifully applaud. I am not sure whether or not I like Thomas Wriothesley; there is an edge to his demeanour that makes me nervous - as though he would willingly stick a knife in my back if it would gain him advancement. Perhaps I recognise that because it was once something I knew in myself. I do not begrudge him this promotion, however, and my own applause is sincere.

"My second announcement is likely to be less welcome," Cromwell continues, and the clerks all seem to sag somewhat. They know what he is about to say, "His Majesty has also decreed that we are to move to Whitehall. Mr Wriothesley will assign you your duties to file and gather all papers for storage and packing in preparation for the move. We are, as always, the first to depart, so we must be ready to do so in three days."

Someone groans, rather theatrically, which sets the boys sniggering slightly - though they all know that they have been set a fearsomely ungenerous deadline that will require them to work much longer hours than usual. As Christmastide is approaching, however, I have no doubt that some additional largesse will make its way into their purses in compensation. Even if the Royal coffers are not so forthcoming, Cromwell's are.

Work is suspended for the duration, to avoid generating even more paper on top of that which is already present. I have dispatched a passing steward to advise John of our impending move, as I will not have time to pack; the extensive work in the Offices, particularly thanks to the short notice, taking priority. The rest of the court has another six days to prepare, as the office staff always move first, so most are not in such a lather.

Matters are not helped by the continual appearance of raveners. They still display that odd behaviour - never attacking anyone, just lurking in the dark as though waiting to be dispatched; but they are always present, and again there are two of them - against all their natures, they seem to be sharing the space in which they roam. Worse, the two that Cromwell manages to dispatch may have gone, but then we find another one as we are returning to his quarters. It looks as though our patrolling must now go on much later into the night.

This does nothing for our tempers during daylight hours, and the Clerks feel the brunt of it. They are working as quickly as they can, so they are also tired, and it is making them careless. Consequently, the atmosphere in the offices is not particularly pleasant.

I have had more success liaising with the Household department, who are fully accustomed to the delicate art of balancing noble expectations with availability of suitable accommodation alongside dealing with the awful mess that we always seem to make with our endless stocks of paper, files, vellum, quills and ink. Everyone else is so taken up with packing, that it seems only fair that one of those who is not visits the relevant offices to ensure that all is in order - and I am that one. The Master of the Household, a highly organised, inoffensive gentleman from Norfolk by the name of Timothy Cheeseman, has assigned suitable quarters with remarkable efficiency, and he reports to me - to pass on to Cromwell - that all is organised and complete.

"All is done, Sir Richard," Cheeseman smiles, calmly in the face of my strained tiredness, "Whitehall is, by far, the easiest of the Palaces to settle, for its size and grandeur is of the highest order."

He has a point - there is unlikely to be any palace of equivalent size anywhere, so everyone should have accommodations fitting to their station. Whether they _like_ them or not is - in my view - immaterial. It's not as though I shall have anything so fine to reside in. As I shall see Cromwell to sup tonight, I can pass the message to him then, so I decide to return to my chambers in hopes of a nap. We shall hunt again tonight, and I am not sure I can continue to do so unless I snatch at least an hour or so of sleep. Certainly John has been giving me worried glances, as even I can see the shadows under my eyes in the silvered looking-glass in my bedchamber.

I groan inwardly as I hear my name called as I cross one of the courts. Now that I have decided to seek out my bed, or at least a couch, for some badly needed rest, I am not well disposed to conversations with anyone - particularly as the tone of voice is so discontented. God, don't let it be someone annoyed at the rooms they've been assigned at Whitehall: it's nothing to do with me, for Heaven's sake…

"I just been advised of the location of my new Quarters, Sir Richard," Edward Seymour declares, rudely, "I am not best pleased. I should be in considerably closer proximity to the King's apartments. I am, after all, the Queen's Brother. I should have expected you and your fellow pen-scratchers to know that."

The insult 'pen-scratcher' seems to freeze inside my head. Zaebos called me that…called me that before he threatened to carve into my face with a knife - and again before he tried to set a bonfire alight beneath me…

"I am well aware of your status, my Lord," I am fighting to shut the image of the revenant out of my mind, that awful moment when he had me pinned to the floor…the feathery sharpness of the blade on my cheek… "There are, however, others of higher status who must take precedence in terms of both rank and protocol. The Household officers have assigned your quarters as appropriately as they can. If they are to reassign your quarters, it would be necessary to ask one of the higher nobles to give up theirs. I'm sure you can appreciate that this is out of the question." God, no - my voice sounds squeaky, and it's not even Seymour that is making it so; despite his enraged expression. I feel myself going cold inside, and I am sure the colour is draining from my face. I imagine he thinks himself responsible for that; he has no idea, none at all…Christ, am I going dizzy?

Seymour glares at me, "I shall speak of this to the Queen. I have no doubt that she shall require me to be moved to more… _appropriate_ …quarters. I shall not forget this insult." He brushes past me, his shoulder battering into mine. I feel myself sway slightly, and somehow I am convinced that the destroyed revenant is standing nearby, enjoying my tremblings. What the hell is wrong with me?

It takes me only a few minutes to reach my chambers, though I almost fall through the door, and John is obliged to catch me to stop me from tripping over an open coffer into which he is packing my belongings. Rather than comment, he immediately guides me to my bedchamber. I promptly flop down onto the counterpane, and remember nothing more.

* * *

When I wake, it is morning. I realise that I have slept through last night's hunt, and berate myself for my inability to be useful. What help am I to Cromwell if I keep passing out all the time? What happened to me yesterday? I shudder, and try to work out what I recall.

As I am thinking, the door opens and John brings in some bread and cheese, and I immediately turn my annoyance upon him, "Why didn't you wake me, John?" I don't even give him time to set down the platter.

"Mr Cromwell asked me not to." John advises, "You were deeply asleep, and he had no wish to disturb you. He, and I, were both in agreement that you had become very over-tired, and needed to rest. In his words you would 'have been no use to him in that state'. Also, in his view, he is used to short sleep - while you are not."

"You sound like my mother." I growl at him, crossly, as he sets the platter down on the bed beside me and adds a cup of small ale, which he sets on a nearby table before fetching out a suit for me to wear, as I am still in yesterday's clothes, which are very crumpled. Then I remember how rude I was to the Lord Seymour yesterday, and sigh, inwardly. I have no doubt that he will expect me to pay for that; though I can only hope that he is not the sort of fool that goes tale-bearing to the King over such matters.

I am not surprised when Cromwell arrives. I have, fortunately, had time to wash and change, and am perched on my bed, halfway through the bread and cheese, when John shows him into my bedchamber. I expect him to be scornful, for some reason, but he is not; instead he sits in a nearby chair and asks if I slept well, as I had clearly needed to when he called upon me last night.

"I can only apologise," I admit, rather glumly, "I had planned only to snatch a few hours before joining you on the hunt."

Cromwell shakes his head, "I ask much of you, Richie, but not that you place yourself in jeopardy through exhausting yourself. I have lived on short sleep for years, and have learned to manage it. You have not. I consider it more important that you be awake enough to manage the library. While I appreciate your growing ability to fight, that is not why I asked you to become my Second. I fear that I have given you the wrong impression that I demand your sword at my side as much as, if not more than, your intellect."

"And what of the numbers of raveners that we are now facing?" I ask, "Surely you do not expect to face them entirely alone?"

"Raveners are remarkably stupid beasts, Richie," Cromwell smiles, "It shall take them some considerable time to discover our whereabouts once the court removes. We shall have some respite for a time as we settle at Whitehall. They are almost certainly gathered hereabouts - and not in the City. Thus I can grant you time to continue your researches - at least in the short term. I have already written to Goodwife Dawson to advise her to maintain rooms for you at Grant's Place. I think it may be wise for you to base yourself there until we need you back at night."

There is a slightly odd look in his eyes, "I see why you would wish me to do that - but there is another reason, is there not?"

Cromwell nods, "I am not sure how much you remember of your conversations yesterday - but you have, in some fashion, singularly insulted the Viscount Beauchamp. Tom reports that he was speaking of you last night in the most uncomplimentary terms - and that he intends to make good his injury."

I sigh, "He demanded that I find him better rooms at Whitehall - as though it were my responsibility to do so. I suppose my response was less than diplomatic. I told him that there are more important people in the better rooms."

Despite himself, Cromwell snorts with amusement, "As you say, less than diplomatic."

"He called me a 'pen-scratcher'." I say, flatly.

The amusement vanishes at once. Cromwell remembers as I do that the last person to insult me in such terms was a revenant that nearly killed me. He clearly knows that the insult touches a nerve that is still very raw.

"How are things at the offices?" I ask, rather keen to change the subject.

"All but complete, I think." Cromwell accepts my wish to avoid the topic of Zaebos, "The boys have, as always, exceeded expectations. The porters can begin work on loading the barges that shall transport the coffers to Whitehall later today. Given a favourable tide, we should be in our new quarters by tomorrow's eve."

"I think, then, that I should offer all assistance," I say, standing up to brush crumbs off my doublet, "I may do less damage to people's over-excessively good opinions of themselves."

As Cromwell predicted, we are all safely arrived at Whitehall the following evening. He has not come with us, as he wishes to remain at Placentia until all have departed - in case the plague of raveners opts to switch lurking for killing. I leave John to set out my possessions in the chambers that have been assigned to me. They are very well appointed, with a view out across a court that has an ornamental garden in the midst of it. As I would normally find myself looking out of mullions towards a blank wall of bricks on the other side of a narrow passageway, I consider myself most fortunate. Not that I intend to spend much time here; I need to be in my Library.

As there are no horses that I can borrow at the Palace, the Royal Horse still being kept at Placentia, I go down to the watergate instead, to hire a wherry. John has already arranged for some of my belongings to be transported to Grant's Place; so, thanks to a favourable tide, I am at the Tower Wharves in less than an hour, and have nothing heavy to lug with me on my walk up to the house. The heavens open as I trudge through the streets, and I am drenched, and shivering, by the time I reach the gates. To my relief, Goodwife Dawson is awaiting my arrival and has assigned one of the older gentlemen to look after my needs while under her roof; a hot bath, dry clothes and a pottage thick with pork and fennel seeds soon serve to restore me.

Having eaten, there is nothing to keep me from the Library, and I am soon amongst the papers again. I am relieved to discover that I have not forgotten all that I learned while there last - but as the hour is late, I decide to wait until the morning to continue my explorations. I am still, I must admit, tired out from the lack of sleep that all but felled me the previous night - and the prospect of a comfortable bed is most welcome.

As the King and the rest of the Court will not begin to remove for another day, and the offices will be a disaster of cluttered unpacking, I know that I shall not be missed - in fact, my absence is likely to be appreciated, as I would merely get in the way. So I descend yet again into the cellars and allow myself to become absorbed in my continued studies.

The notes and scribbles in my hand upon the margins of the pages continue to grow, as I write reminders and cross-references to myself. I hope that they might be as useful to any Second who comes later as this entire index has been to me - as, despite my intention to consider this to be 'my' Library, I still cannot quite rid myself of the view that it is - in every meaningful sense - Wolsey's.

The thought catches me for a moment, and I find myself sagging a little. After my woeful performance of the past two days - sleeping when I should have been hunting, insulting a man who could make life difficult for my Silver Sword - I wonder if I shall ever become even a quarter of the Second that Wolsey was. For so long, I was in his shadow in Cromwell's esteem, and even now, I sometimes wonder if he still wishes that he had Wolsey at his side instead of me. For all of his fraternal care: calling me 'Richie', clasping my hand tightly as I burned with the sovereign specific - was he thinking 'Wolsey would not have needed this'?

The thought of that hideous pain, and the wound that it cured, suddenly almost causes me to choke, and I feel the need to escape. Fleeing upstairs, I almost hurtle out through the concealed door, and find myself unexpectedly face to face with someone who most certainly should not have been there.

"Molly?"

Her eyes are wide, as she knows she is trespassing, "Mr Rich, Sir! I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm - I was just…" she looks behind her, "The door was open…" her voice falters.

"Why did you come in here?" I ask her more firmly. I can guess - but I want it confirmed.

"There's something secret in here." She says, still nervous, "Goody Dawson doesn't speak of it, but we all know there's a secret in this house." Then she looks at me a bit more closely, "Are you alright, Mr Rich?"

I imagine I must look as though I have seen a ghost, or something; but I nod, "Yes Molly, I'm quite well." Sighing, I seat myself behind the desk where Wolsey had once sat. It does not offer me any comfort - and instead I find myself feeling almost rebellious against that passed Paragon, "You're right about there being a secret in this house. Do you want to see what that secret is?"

Her eyes widen, and I realise that she is misinterpreting my invitation, "Believe me, Molly, I have no intention to harm you. The secret in here is something that I suspect may astound you. Goody Dawson tells me that you are exceedingly intelligent." I don't need Goodwife Dawson to tell me that - I can hear it in the way that Molly speaks to me - her language has improved, as has her grammar. I can still recall her rather mangled speech when Cromwell first spoke to her after her boy Dickon went missing. Add that to a good memory…a thought is starting to grow in my mind.

I stand up again, and cross to the secret door, "Come with me. You don't need to know how to get in here - not yet. I just think you should see what this room contains."

She still stands where she is. Apparently she doesn't realise that _droit de seigneur_ is just a myth. Maybe to women of her standing, it isn't, "Molly, I _promise_ that I am not going to hurt you. You'll not regret seeing this." I just hope that I'm right in my guess.

Finally, she moves, and follows me down the stairs. The lantern is still burning where I left it when I fled, and its light is sufficient to show her just the nearest edges of the shelves. To her, as it did to me the first time I saw this, it must look as though they stretch off for miles without interruption.

"Saints preserve us…" she whispers, and I know that my guess is correct. She is as fascinated as I was.

Even as she wanders unprompted into the midst of the collection, she is reaching out to examine papers in astonishment. Goodwife Dawson has done more than begin her education, it seems that she has awakened a keen intellect, and a strong desire to learn as much as this world can teach. I know that feeling well; and did not Cromwell tell me that not all Seconds are men?

"What does this say, Mr Rich?" She asks suddenly, holding out a paper that must be in another language. I hope it is one that I can read, too. Fortunately, as I take it, I discover it to be in Greek - one of the few languages I read better than Cromwell does.

"It's Greek, Molly. They don't use the same sort of letters that we do." Tracing my fingertip along the unfamiliar alphabet, I read it aloud, then translate it for her.

"Can I learn that?" she asks, at once.

"I would have to talk to Mr Cromwell about that, Molly." I admit, "I think that you could be most helpful to us as more than a house servant. But I must ask you to keep this place a secret. Don't tell anyone - not Dickon, not Goody Dawson. They must not know of this Library - we keep it hidden to protect them. There are things in here that could put our heads in nooses, or bind us to stakes."

Her eyes widen at such a threat, but her keenness to explore and learn is such that she nods immediately, "Not a word, Mr Rich, I swear."

"Good girl - now go. I shall need to discuss this with Mr Cromwell. Until then, I'm afraid you must keep out of this chamber entirely. Don't let anyone see you leave."

She nods, and departs.

I am positive that she can be of use to us in our fight - after all there are times when it is simply impossible for me to come here, and we need someone in the house working on our behalf. I just hope that I can convince Cromwell.

* * *

“You've done _what_?" Wyatt asks, his jaw flopping almost to his chest - or so it seems to me.

I take a rather nervous gulp of claret, "I found her in the chamber when I came out of the Library. She was curious, so I decided to reward her curiosity."

Cromwell has not yet spoken, but I can see that his brow is furrowed; that look that he used to have whenever I did something stupid early on in our relationship as Silver Sword and Second. I find that same thought in my head: _Wolsey wouldn't do this_.

"What if she starts blabbing about it?" Wyatt continues.

"She won't. She knows the risks that we would run if she did. I don't think you realise how intelligent she is. The first thing she did when I explained some Greek text to her was to ask if she could learn to read it."

"She's a woman - they always blab!"

"The women _you_ know might - but she won't. Besides, why should her being a woman stand in her way? I would have agreed with you until yesterday, but if you'd heard her speak, you'd realise that she absorbs knowledge like a sponge absorbs water. Goodwife Dawson herself has been marvelling at how quickly she picked up reading and writing, and her memory is phenomenal! We'd be _mad_ to let an intellect like that go to waste!"

"Thomas - surely you know he's done something foolish?" Wyatt appeals. As someone forever surrounded by the feather-brained women of the Court whose primary aims are to secure rich husbands, or men who will grant them gifts of value as a mistress, he is unused to the presence of intellect in a female brain; other, perhaps, than that which existed in his beloved Anne whom he kept permanently on a pedestal anyway. All Silver Swords may be men - but not all Seconds. Has he forgotten that? He was present when Cromwell told us - wasn't he? I can't remember now.

Cromwell remains silent, and I sigh again, "I know, Thomas. Wolsey would not have done this."

Finally he speaks, "Actually, he would have. He respected knowledge, and appreciated its importance. Had Molly come into the household and shown such aptitude when he was there, he would have done exactly as you did."

I turn to him, surprised, "He would?"

"Of course he would. Wolsey may have been a corrupt, self-seeking politician who spent much of his time lining his own pockets and sleeping with his mistress, but he was absolutely committed to the Mission. The only reason he had no Second in training was because he had found no one to take that role. Had he found someone, then I would not have become so isolated - and you would not have needed to batter me so completely over the head with my refusal to fully accept you as my Second."

"Perhaps I should have told you first." I say.

"Why? I trust your judgement - and when it comes to securing the passage of knowledge from one Second to the next, I would expect that to be your responsibility. As you told me so firmly - Wolsey is no longer with us. You expect me to accept that - but it appears to me that you have not accepted it yourself. Besides - you have not waited to tell me; you have done so immediately. That, I _would_ expect, and you have met that expectation."

Perhaps I am not as talentless as I suspected after all.

"That said," Cromwell continues, "I should prefer to meet her before we bring her too much into this business. She may not be aware of the risks that Seconds face as much as Silver Swords do - risks that you have already run. If she is to walk this path with us, then she must know where it may lead. The King has delayed his departure by another day, so while most of the Court is present, he is not. I think I can afford to spend a day at Grant's Place. If she is to become a Second, then it is certainly sensible that she should meet a Silver Sword at the earliest opportunity. She should have time to change her mind - though, from your assessment of her, I suspect that she will not."

As much of the Royal Horse is now transferred to the Mews at Whitehall, we are all on horseback to make the journey through the city. I still have not procured my own beast, so again I am riding the placid gelding that Cromwell advised me to call 'Adrian'. Since most of the Court seem to prefer much more mettlesome animals, few are keen to ride this one - so I might see if the Master of the Horse will sell him to me. Cromwell rides his chestnut, Clement, while Wyatt is aboard a fine bay mare that he calls Persephone, presumably for poetic reasons.

While Cromwell has his swords - to show Molly - they are well wrapped to keep them hidden, and we give the impression of three court officials on business. Which, to some degree, we are. The early October has calmed considerably after the storms that battered us at the end of September, and the ride is most pleasant - even for me. While not as quick as a wherry on an ebbing tide, we make good time and arrive at Grant's Place in time for the midday meal. As Goodwife Dawson is expecting us, she does not berate Cromwell, but instead ushers us in to sit down at a well laden table, as one of the gentlemen leads the horses away.

After we have eaten, Cromwell asks her to send Molly through to join us in one of the smaller chambers, as he has not seen her in some time and wishes to ask her how she is. If she is surprised at his request, Goodwife Dawson does not show it - but perhaps she is used to odd commands from her Master. While we wait, he turns to me, "I would ask you to make the introductions, Richard - she sees you as the most experienced in this world. It may startle her less if she learns of my true identity from you."

"And it's more likely that she'll believe you." Wyatt grins, cheerfully.

While she is startled at the presence of the Lord Chancellor, who is in his best clothing and wearing his chain of office, she regards him without the shyness, and almost fear, that she displayed when he first spoke to her. As he had done his all to set her at her ease, she does not recall him as a person to be afraid of, even though he now presents a far more intimidating prospect than he did that night. Instead, she drops an impeccable curtsey, and looks to me for an explanation.

"This is Mr Cromwell, Molly. Remember?" I begin. She looks at me, and nods. It's a foolish thing to begin with, as she would certainly remember, "And you will also remember Mr Wyatt." She nods again.

"When I showed you the library in the cellar yesterday," I continue, "I mentioned the importance of keeping it a secret for the knowledge it contains. The reason for that is more than the danger in which it puts us - for its records and knowledge are essential weapons in a fight that no one else knows about. You might hear the preachers talking of the dangers of evil and devils - and perhaps you are fearful, or perhaps you might consider their words foolish. You would be right - on both counts, for the dangers are real, but the Preachers do not understand them. That is my task and, I hope, will become yours in time, too."

Her eyes widen, though I think it is because she is not sure whether or not to believe me, so I plunge on, "When I first became alerted to this world, I thought it impossible; but it's not. The Kingdom is in danger, Molly - and you can help us fight that danger, if you want to."

Rather than be shocked, she seems intrigued, and I turn to Cromwell, who is interested in her reaction, "Do you know who I am, Molly?" He asks, "Not my name - but who I am at Court."

"Yes, Sir," she says, "You are the Lord Chancellor. You are very important to the King."

"If I were to tell you that I am more than that - that I am tasked with protecting his very life, what would you think?"

"I would have thought that it wasn't real. But then Mr Rich showed me the books in the cellar, and I think that it is." Molly pauses, then looks at him quite sharply, "Does the King know?"

He smiles, impressed at her wit, "Indeed he does not, Molly. The war that we fight is all but unseen. Why did you ask that question?"

"If the King knows of it, then why is it hidden?" she says, immediately. God, she's sharp.

Cromwell is clearly pleased with her answer, and unwraps his swords, "You should know, Molly, that no one else at court is aware of me, or these weapons that I carry. I am what is known as a Silver Sword. There are less than twenty of us in existence, and many of us hold positions in the Royal Courts - to protect the Kings and Princes from that which would bring them down and plunge us all into chaos and darkness." He draws one of the weapons, "This blade is forged from steel and silver, its design based upon the swords used by warriors descended from the Scythians. It bears the sigil of the Raven - which is what you must use from now on whenever you refer to me as part of this business."

Molly stares at the blade, as entranced as I was when first I saw it.

"It is important that you understand, though, that this is not an easy path to travel. The Court of England is in perhaps the greatest danger of all, for we are a small nation, separated from our neighbours by sea. This land would make a fine fortress for the forces of Darkness, but they require chaos and disorder to thrive - and it is our task to ensure that this land remains peaceful, in the face of determination to ensure that we fail. To do this, we must sometimes act against our consciences. Would you be willing to do such a thing?"

What she says then surprises us all, "Like you had to with Queen Anne?"

Perhaps it is not that difficult to deduce - but she has seen exactly the problem to which Cromwell is referring; sometimes, for the sake of the greater good, we must do that which we almost cannot bear. Everyone knows that Cromwell was the chief architect of Anne's downfall, even if he was acting on the requirements of the King - but no one could know _why_. In an instant, she has seen it purely from the evidence she has been given.

He recovers quickly, "Yes, Molly. As we had to with Queen Anne. She was innocent - but her brother and father had fallen in with a malevolent influence, and were plotting to take the throne. She was caught in the midst of their fall - and we were obliged to act against her, regardless of the truth." He needs not say any more - his eyes say more than enough.

We sit for a moment, until I decide to try something, "Molly, do you remember the text I showed you yesterday?"

She nods, immediately, and I hasten through to 'my' Chamber to retrieve some paper and a stick of charcoal, before setting them before her, "Can you write it down?"

To my amazement, she quickly takes up the charcoal and begins to draw the Greek lettering with surprising accuracy. There are some mistakes, certainly, but it is largely legible and corresponds to the words I translated for her. Her memory is astonishing. Taking the paper, I hold it up, "This is almost completely right. I remember it myself - but I have the additional advantage of understanding it. There are one or two letters that are not quite correct - but she saw this only the once, when I showed it to her."

Cromwell nods, "Molly could you give us a few minutes, please?"

She nods, bobs another curtsey and leaves.

"You are right, Richie," Cromwell says, obviously impressed, "She has a remarkable mind - we would be fools to let her intellect be wasted. She is not ready to stand with us - not yet. She still has much to learn."

"As do I, Thomas." I remind him.

"I think she should remain here, and begin to learn the contents of the Library as you are doing. She should also be more properly educated. I think I should engage a tutor for her at the earliest opportunity. To condemn her to the life of a maid would be a travesty - not when she can offer so much to the fight we face. If nothing else, she can provide assistance when you are not free to come here. I imagine you have thought of that yourself, have you not?"

I nod, "Should we remove to Windsor, then the library would be all but beyond my reach."

"Maybe you should invest in some homing pigeons." Wyatt smiles, "Very well, I was wrong. Bake me some humble pie and I shall devour it with all speed."

When she is called back in, Molly sits in awed silence as the opportunities Cromwell proposes are laid out for her. Not only is she to no longer be a servant, but she is to be granted a fine education, and to serve at the side of one of the most highly placed men in the Kingdom in a fight to protect the King himself. She takes no more than a moment to nod excitedly at the prospect of being let loose amongst all those books. She even accepts that she is not ready to fight alongside us - though Wyatt suggests that Dickon undergo some training to act as her immediate protector, which makes her blush.

As we depart back to the Palace, Cromwell is clearly pleased, much to my relief, "You have made an excellent find there, Richie, I think we shall have a remarkable Second to offer to the Order in future. If she can become fluent in sufficient languages, there might even be a career for her in one of the foreign courts, should she wish to accept such an appointment."

While I am relieved that I have done so well, there is still one small black cloud lurking the firmament of my success. I just wish that I could translate that damned paper.


	3. Two Sides of the Name Seymour

The weather is bright as we return to Whitehall. I need to make preparations at my desk for the inevitable work that shall follow the King's arrival, and so does Cromwell. The offices are, not surprisingly, busy with activity as the clerks are still transferring papers, books and files from coffers to shelves - always an onerous task, so they are generally very grateful that they are not obliged to do this more than once or twice a year.

I have not seen Beauchamp since I was so rude to him; though I have learned from Cheeseman that his attempt to switch rooms was unsuccessful, news that I greet with slightly spiteful glee. It appears that the Queen is still enough of his sister to make fun of his overbearing self-importance, and her explanation was much the same as mine, though I imagine it was couched in far more polite terms than I was able to offer. As he is likely to be sore from his failure to overturn his assignment of quarters, particularly after his assurances that he would secure such a thing, I think I shall take care to avoid him as much as I can. As I intended to do so anyway, this is no real hardship. I must, however, ensure that I travel between the Palace and Grant's Place during the hours of daylight when I can, as I shall be travelling alone, and sometimes not even a sword is sufficient deterrent to keep one safe from those who prowl the streets at night.

Before I begin my daily commuting, however, we repair to Cromwell's apartments for supper. As usual, his accommodation is superior to ours in terms both of size and quality - and Wyatt insists that he not dare explore them, for fear of becoming lost. Our gathering together has become such a regular occurrence, that I feel almost bereft that I shall not be sharing them for the time being. We have nothing of importance to discuss, so instead Wyatt regales us with court gossip, some of it startlingly salacious; and I can almost feel the tension of the last few weeks fading away. No raveners to deal with for at least a few weeks - while they track us down, I suppose - the move completed safely. If only life could always be that simple.

I discover that it is not within a few minutes of leaving Cromwell's quarters to return to my own. I see them ahead of me, two men wearing livery that proclaims them to belong to Beauchamp's retinue. They could well just be socialising - but then again, they might not. I have no choice but to pass them, and one of them looks up as I approach. They say nothing, even as I pass, but they continue to direct their gaze at me even as I leave them behind. Hoping to God they aren't following me, I force myself to keep my pace even, and my relief at reaching my door is almost tangible. Before I enter I look behind me - but they are not in view. Now I am annoyed with myself - were they there to intimidate me, or am I just being a fearful old woman? Somehow, however, I am sure that it's a message from Seymour. He does not like to be made to look a fool - even if that his own making - and the blame for that is apparently upon my shoulders.

Thank God I shall be at Grant's Place from tomorrow.

The Council assembles the following morning, in anticipation of the King and Queen, who are due to arrive before supper tonight. All are now accommodated, and settled - apart, it seems, from Beauchamp, and the meeting is little more than a formality to enable those of us who do the actual work of Government to apprise the gathered nobles that everything is ready.

Once, the Duke of Norfolk would have stood in place of the King, but as he is now out of favour, the Duke of Suffolk takes his place. A long time friend of the King, Suffolk's station is an odd one - his birth being illegitimate. There are, however, few people who can truly claim the friendship of Henry, and certainly no other man at this table can do so. I had once felt very uncomfortable in his presence, thinking him to be hostile to me as I accompanied him to arrest the late Lady Anne; it was only later that I discovered that I was not the target of his ire - it was Anne herself. He seems more to regard me with a mixture of mild dislike and indifference: I am too lowly in station to be of any interest to him, but I did help to entrap Sir Thomas More - and I suspect that this is the reason for his distaste. Since I regard that episode with much the same view, I cannot blame him.

There is not much to discuss - as the intention is merely to ensure that the Council is aware of where things left off prior to the move to Whitehall. This Cromwell undertakes with meticulous detail, as he knows that several of the Lords at this table will be keen to try to pick holes in his presentation, as he is possibly even more disliked than I. At least I am a Knight - admittedly only a Knight bachelor - but he has no noble status at all, and his presence is generally resented by those who consider a place at this table to be held by right of birth. That said, I am only there to answer questions of a legal bent; I am not a member of the Privy Council.

These days, it never ceases to amaze me how undisturbed he is by that sense of being so unwelcome amongst these high-born men. At one time, I would have resented him just as much as they - hypocritical perhaps, given that I lack their fortune of birth - but, to him, the constant core of all that he does comes down to one phrase: _The Mission is All_. The King must be protected, and the Kingdom must be at peace. Nothing else matters. Certainly not petty resentments over rank and station.

Suffolk asks if there is any other business to discuss, and Beauchamp rises. I think, at first, that he intends to raise some form of grievance against me for denying him better rooms than those he got, but instead his query is about the establishment of reforms to aid the poor and dispossessed. As is often the case with wealthy men, the reality of life for those not blessed with healthy fortunes seems meaningless - and I know that myself, for I was hardly born poor - and he seems quite put out at the requirement to plough through the proposed bills to go before Parliament later in the month.

All eyes turn immediately to Cromwell, as they all know that he most definitely _was_ born poor. Most eye him with scorn, but I note that Suffolk is far more interested in how he will respond to the question put to him by the Queen's brother.

"As you will be aware," His voice is dry, the speech of a lawyer, "With the ongoing reforms to the Church, now that his Majesty is its Head, certain aspects of their work amongst those who are at the lower levels of society must be replicated as far as possible by the State. The corruption in the Abbeys must be stamped out - but not at the expense of those for whom they are a source of succour in their darkest hours. We cannot demand that the people lose that succour - not without offering them assistance in place of it."

"And why should they matter?" Seymour asks, rather brutally, "Are they not capable of working? Can they not achieve higher things through diligent industry - or do they need the assistance of a wealthy wife to bring them to better times?"

The table goes very quiet, and I notice that Suffolk has clenched his hand into a fist, crumpling up a sheet of paper he was writing on. The degree of insult in Beauchamp's words is shocking at such a gathering, as all know that the bulk of Cromwell's wealth is supported by the business he inherited when he was widowed. He had certainly married well - though by the time he did so he was a respectable lawyer - but to suggest that he had done so in such a mercenary fashion? Does Beauchamp really believe that he can make such an accusation so openly? To my surprise, my hand twitches as though wishing to form a fist. How _dare_ he insult a Silver Sword? _My_ Silver Sword? Surely Cromwell will not stand for this?

Cromwell stands very still, his eyes firmly on Beauchamp, but instead of rising to the insult, he merely picks up where he left off, as though nothing untoward had been said. The tension at the table dissipates almost noticeably, and Beauchamp looks quite deflated; as though he had hoped to provoke a reaction, and thus raise some grievance against the Lord Chancellor. Judging by the look on Suffolk's face, he would have backed Cromwell had he been provoked; they might have their differences, but Suffolk is generally fair in his dealings to all, and Beauchamp's behaviour was all but unpardonable.

Most of the Council depart swiftly as the meeting ends, leaving the two of us to gather together papers before returning to our offices, but Suffolk is still present, so I cannot speak to Cromwell about Beauchamp's rudeness. Not that I need to, for Suffolk does so instead, "That was well done, Mr Cromwell. I am not sure I could have stood to be insulted so."

"I have endured worse, your Grace." He replies, his voice quiet, "It is not as though he were saying anything specifically untrue. I gained a wealthy business when I married." He does not look up from the papers he is gathering, and I know that, despite his apparent equanimity, Beauchamp's words have struck a nerve. I almost feel my hands tensing again. Dear God, what kind of fool am I to feel so insulted on his behalf? I am his Second, not his mother.

"Perhaps, but his actions were not appropriate for a man of his standing, and certainly not in such a forum. If he makes such a move again, I may consider speaking to the King." He then looks at me, "If not, I fear that the Solicitor General might leap from his chair and try to take Beauchamp by the throat."

I stare at him, startled. Clearly he sees much more than I give him credit for - though he would not know the reason for my angry protectiveness. Then I feel myself going red - God, what does he think I was thinking?

Grinning cheerfully, Suffolk departs, and I stare at Cromwell in mild horror, though he appears to find the incident highly amusing - so at odds with the sadness he seemed to be exhibiting only moments ago. Perhaps I am more than just a substitute mother. A fool, or a clown perhaps?

"Say not a word. Not. One. Word." I snap, grumpily.

"As you wish, Mr Rich." He smiles, "Come, I have no doubt Mr Wriothesley is keen to know if our discussions this morning will lead to more paper upon his desk."

Those two same men - in Beauchamp's livery - are lurking again as we make our way back to the offices. As before, they eye us rather balefully, but do nothing more. As we pass them, however, one of them hawks loudly, and spits on the flags at his feet. Not a threat, perhaps, but somehow I feel as though the implied insult is aimed at me. Cromwell does not appear to notice, so I ignore it as he does and we return to our work.

It is only later, when he insists on accompanying me down to the watergate in search of a wherry, that I realise that he _has_ noticed, "I think I may ask Wyatt to keep watch on those two retainers. I have no doubt that Beauchamp has set them to menace you. We have more important things to think about than the wounded feelings of a Courtier."

"If they attempt to seek me out tonight, Thomas, then they shall have a hard time of it. I shall be in my Library."

" _Your_ Library?" He asks, an eyebrow sardonically raised, then he laughs, "I wondered how long it would take you to accept it as yours. I fear my guesses were all too long - forgive me."

"Sometimes I still wonder," I admit, "How Wolsey found his way around it all, I have no idea."

"Time, Richie. You need time - and now you have it, if not in as great a measure as he did, at least there is more than we might have had were we at Hampton."

"Do you think it will take Beauchamp long to get bored of avenging himself upon me?" I ask, wondering if I am merely being overly nervous - and that he might tire of it in no more than a few days.

"I cannot answer that - if he is willing to insult me so utterly, and without provocation, I cannot imagine the length of his campaign if he considers himself to be provoked. If it becomes troublesome, however, we shall have to take steps."

"Perhaps I should leap out of my chair and take him by the throat, as Suffolk suggested." I mutter, and he laughs again.

"Get you gone, Richie," he says, cheerfully, "Else Goodwife Dawson burns your supper and makes you eat it."

* * *

While my evenings in the Library are very much a pleasurable pursuit, the inconvenience of having to depart the Palace every afternoon is taking a toll, and I am sometimes obliged to bring work with me. In the week since I began my daily commute between Whitehall and Grant's Place, I have seen nothing of the two retainers that Beauchamp had set to watch me, but I have gained more insight into the genius of Cardinal Wolsey and his extraordinary ability to organise the papers that I am now studying as hard as I can. I just wish I could make progress on the most vital of our projects. But there is still nothing to find.

As we can no longer meet for supper in the evenings, Cromwell has developed a keenness to dine in the middle of the day; something we rarely had the time to do prior to my regular absence. Wyatt is always happy to share in the largesse, so our opportunities to discuss matters that we consider to be 'business' are uninterrupted.

"It seems that her Majesty can do no wrong in the eyes of the court," he reports, mopping at the puddled gravy on his trencher with some bread, "She universally adored - though I fear that her religious favours lean more towards Rome than Canterbury. She may attempt to ask the King to slow or, even end, his reforms; though I doubt that he would allow her to interfere in such matters. She is not well educated, she is also a woman - and, most importantly, she is still not with child."

"Are you certain?" Cromwell asks, though I am not sure whether his question covers her religion, the possible fate of his prized reformation or the fact that she has not conceived.

"On all counts." Wyatt answers, as uncertain as I.

"I hope that she conceives soon, or all this will have been for naught." Cromwell muses, "The King's desire to have a son is such that he would marry any woman in Christendom that could grant him one. I would not wish her to suffer the same fate as those before her."

Wyatt's voice drops to a whisper, "It is said that none of his mistresses have conceived, either."

I nearly drop my knife. To mention that the King might have no seed to create a child is outright treason - even if mentioned so obliquely, and quietly. What is Wyatt thinking? Surely he has not forgotten his time in the Tower as quickly as that?

"I set no store in rumours." Cromwell advises, just as quietly, before raising his voice again, "I have no doubt that the a babe shall come in time. Our task is to ensure that it is protected when that time comes."

I murmur an agreement, relieved at the abandonment of such a dangerous subject.

"I have heard that she has no liking for you, though, Thomas." Wyatt admits.

"No one likes me, Tom." Cromwell smiles, "I thought you knew that."

"Does she have any specific reason for her dislike?" I ask.

"Apart from your zeal for stamping out idolatrous pursuits at our corrupted houses of God?" Wyatt responds, cheerfully.

"Would she care to meet that disembodied Saint's head from Sawley Abbey?" I quip, "I'm sure, if she asked nicely and made a sufficient donation, it would tell her _exactly_ the reason for our zeal. As long as someone was standing behind it turning the handle that made it move."

"She has seen petitioners offering you money, Thomas." Wyatt explains, a little more seriously, "I don't think she appreciates that such underhand activities are expected of the Lord Chancellor - one must, after all, conform to expectations."

That is true - though it's unfortunate that her Majesty has noticed it. All expect favours, and most expect to pay for them to gain preference over others. It keeps people loyal - mostly to the King, though admittedly they do consider themselves beholden to Cromwell when they offer bribes; not that they know what he does with the money. Neither does the Queen.

"Silver Swords are obliged to act in whatever manner keeps things peaceful." Cromwell agrees, "If I must maintain appearances to do so, then I shall. The rules of the House do not, however, oblige me to keep what is offered."

Wyatt stares at him, "You give it _away_?"

"Of course I do - what on earth would I do with it? I am quite wealthy enough as it is - why not give it to people who need it more than I?"

"You could give some of it to me. I need it more than you do." Wyatt dodges yet another flung napkin, before continuing, "I am not sure how much this might affect our work; but she is also endeavouring to restore the Lady Mary to the King's affections."

Cromwell's eyebrows rise, as do mine. Given the King's anger towards her, and the girl's stubbornness, it seems astonishing that Queen Jane might succeed in restoring Henry's first child to his presence. After all the effort Thomas Boleyn went to in order to keep her away, too. I cannot see any reason why this should cause difficulties for us, though Cromwell looks rather concerned.

"Do you foresee problems?" I ask.

"Only that she will be another with no liking for me. She despised Wolsey, and Boleyn - and I was closely involved with both. I have no doubt that she holds me equally culpable for the wretchedness of her recent life: banned from the King's presence, forbidden to have any contact with her Mother - and even expected to be nothing more than a servant to the child of the woman who supplanted Katherine - though that was Boleyn's personal spite. If she has emerged from that with no anger or hatred in her heart, then she is a better Christian than I could hope to be."

"Come now, Thomas," Wyatt says, "No matter how strong her ire, she does not have the power to have you removed from Court - even were she to try. The Queen has not made any such attempt, so the Lady Mary could not hope to seek such a thing."

He shakes his head, "I do not anticipate any difficulty on that score. I am not fool enough to consider my place in the King's favour to be any stronger than that of any other who has it; but the King would not remove me merely because Mary demanded it. My concern is that she might be in danger if she returns. She is the only heir - but, as a woman, she could conceive a son once married - and what is to prevent Lamashtu from taking advantage of that? While she was out of favour, and far from the succession, she was safe. That may well change if the King agrees to restore her to it. And I can say for certain that she would refuse any offer of protection that we could make."

"In that case," I say, reaching for my cup to swallow the last of its claret, "Let us pray the Queen has a son."

* * *

"What does this say, Mr Rich?" Molly asks, poring over a latin document by the light of a second lantern that I have obtained for her use.

"Rather a lot, Molly." I advise her, dryly, "It's a treatise on the virtues of Godly grace."

"What's a treatise?" She is full of questions today.

"A long written work." I tell her, "Longer than an essay, but shorter than a book."

She does, at least, know what an essay is. Her tutor, a bright humanist by the name of Roger Stanton, requires her to write them; which she does with startling enthusiasm. Her fingers are nowadays almost permanently ingrained with ink - as though she were a scribe. When last I spoke to him, he was convinced that he was having to chase after her, so quickly does she pick up her lessons. I think he may be exaggerating, but probably not by much.

She is not the only one making progress. While my researches into the paper about the two objects remain frustratingly fruitless, I have reached a point where I no longer have to fumble my way along the shelves in search of something. Furthermore, there are even some larger documents that I can identify as a source without having to pause and consider before I head into the shelves. I am certainly beginning to feel less of a dunce.

We have been at this for three weeks, and my explorations now include her, as she seems to be far more able to remember references in the Index than I. While my memory has always been good, hers is extraordinary - as though she sees in pictures, and can recall all within those pictures with sharp clarity. I must make do with more mundane tricks to help me. I think I shall need to enlighten her over the manner of entry to this place - as it cannot be much longer before we are required to resume patrols to keep raveners at bay.

Cromwell is right - they seem to be remarkably stupid beings, as we have seen none since our departure from Placentia. William has been keeping a close ear on gossip in the Servant's halls, and it seems that they are no longer there, either. The place is not empty - it's full of people, yet they do not attack. Perhaps because those that are present are of insufficient consequence - presuming that the raveners are under Lamashtu's control, of course.

My days are immensely busy now - rising early, seeking out a wherryman to return me to Whitehall, meeting with Cromwell prior to the start of the day for another bout with the wooden swords, before a day's work. Then back to Grant's Place to continue my studies before dropping into heavy sleep. I have had to have most of my clothes taken in, as I have little time to eat much, and my endless activity has caused me to become far leaner than I have been in years. Now I understand why Cromwell is so thin.

"Mr Rich?"

I look up, pulled out of my thoughts, "What is it, Molly?" she looks a little shy, suddenly.

"I…" she pauses, then plunges on, "Dickon and I - we're getting married in a week."

I cannot help but smile at her; we had thought him dead, once - but now he is to be her husband. One good thing that came out of all that misery, "My very best to you both, Molly - I cannot say how pleased I am; I think I have not the words." I bow to her as though she were a fine lady at the Court.

"I was wondering, Mr Rich…" she pauses again, "I haven't got any family, so I have no one to give me away. Would you do it?"

"I should be honoured, Molly; but I would need to be certain that I would be able to leave the Court to do so. Could you allow me a day to arrange it?"

She nods, then looks a little nervous again, "Could you ask Mr Wyatt and Mr Cromwell if they would like to come?" she adds, in something of a rush. She knows how illustrious a guest the Lord Chancellor would be; I can only hope that they are free to do so - they would not refuse unless there was no means to attend, as she is an apprentice Second. I can only hope that _I_ am free to do so.

The ride to Whitehall the following morning takes nearly two hours, as the tide is against us, and a viciously cold gale is biting at the tips of my nose and ears. It is also splattering me with filthy river water, and I am grateful for the heavy cloak that keeps it from my clothes. At this rate, I shall not have time to change into anything else before I am meant to be at my desk. There shall be no time for sword practice today.

Sleet is battering at my bonnet and cloaked shoulders by the time I alight, and I offer a sizeable gratuity to the wherryman for his forbearance in fighting the tide on my behalf. I am late, which is annoying, and shall need some time to persuade my fingers to work again, which is inconvenient. John is waiting for me at the top of the stairs, sheltering in a doorway to take my outer garments, so I can repair straight to the offices.

I am still blowing on my frozen fingers as I arrive, and hasten to the fire to try and regain some remembrance of how it is to feel warm. While I am so engaged, Peter - the youngest of our clerks - comes in, looking very excited, "The Lady Mary has arrived, Mr Rich!" he announces, "Queen Jane won the day with his Majesty - and she is returned to court!"

As the clerks rarely see anyone so illustrious, despite being resident within the palace walls, this is something of a coup, and he is surrounded by envious youths asking about her - largely revolving around whether or not she is pretty. No one has managed to catch sight of anyone of the royal family for weeks; and they are rather competitive over the rare occasions when they come across someone so elevated. Certainly Peter seems to have recovered from his grief over the death of Queen Anne. I hope to myself that he does not lose his heart to another royal personage - it seems such a pointless endeavour, as they seem to end up dying with rather alarming frequency.

Cromwell arrives a few minutes later, and his expression is rather sour. I imagine he must also have noticed Lady Mary's arrival. He joins me beside the fire, "She has fired her opening shots."

"Who? The Lady Mary?"

He nods, "That is no surprise - the only remarkable thing is that she took so little time to do so. I should have thought she would have been too pleased to be back in favour to take note of me." He sighs, "As though I do not already have a war on my hands."

"I can offer you a brief respite if you wish, Thomas. Molly shall be wedded to Dickon next week. She has asked if you and Tom could attend."

"Not you?" He asks, surprised.

"I shall be acting as the father of the bride." I advise him, loftily.

"Tell her that I should be honoured. I hope that she does not expect me to attend as Lord Chancellor - I should much rather not be bedecked in this ridiculous chain."

"Indeed - it would not do to outshine the bride, after all."

He has much more of a spring in his step as he goes to his desk.

The Lady Mary's presence at court changes the atmosphere yet further. The King, despite all his refusals and fuss over her being restored to his favour, is overjoyed to have her back, while Queen Jane has clearly won the girl's rather bruised heart with her gentle kindness. The appearance of a joyful Royal dynasty seems almost to have cast a golden veil of ease over all present, and it is certainly reflected in the King's behaviour towards his Council. I have heard it said that he has not lost his temper for three days, not even at Cromwell, who would normally expect to be at least insulted, or have something thrown at him - even a fist - during their regular meetings.

Mary, however, is more than making up for his apparent equanimity. While Cromwell did not speak of it - as he never does when he receives royal disapproval or abuse, the court gossips most certainly did. Wyatt tells me that, upon seeing him for the first time after her arrival, her first words to him were a demand that he absent himself from her sight, and ensure that he remain that way. Naturally, the tale has expanded in the telling, and - again, she has variously slapped him, spat in his face, cursed him in her Mother's name, or threatened to petition the King to have him executed as a traitor; depending, of course, upon whom one asks.

Being so frequently in the presence of the King, however, Cromwell cannot possibly avoid her at all times, and yet more rumours circulate over her behaviour towards him. According to Wyatt, she has all but accused him of poisoning her mother - in league with the 'Concubine', as she calls the late Lady Anne. She has also, to my dismay, rather spitefully told him that she is glad that Wolsey is dead, and almost certainly burning in hell thanks to his vile heart and corrupted soul. While the first accusation would not have concerned him, for it is hardly the first time it has been hurled at him, the second statement would certainly have caused him some pain. He was never blind to Wolsey's faults - but he was also very aware of his virtues, and loved him for them.

He does not speak of them to me, however, so I instead concentrate on reminding him of the Wedding that will shortly take place at St Leonard's in Shoreditch; a much happier topic of conversation.

* * *

The day of the wedding is a bright, crisp Wednesday in early December; possibly the first time that the weather has let up in weeks. Wyatt has, naturally, bedecked himself brightly, but tastefully. I have found something not too ostentatious, and even Cromwell has managed to wear something that is not his habitual black. Wriothesley is not overly ecstatic at being left to manage affairs in our absence, but he does at least ask us to pass on his congratulations - blithely unaware that he is offering them to a former Palace drudge.

Goodwife Dawson is delighted to see us - though I had warned her the previous evening; having spent all but the previous night under her roof. She has largely adopted the happy couple, and views them with a maternal pride that is rather affecting. Dickon, her fiancé, is awaiting our arrival, and immediately takes Wyatt aside. From his expression, and enthusiastic nod - coupled to an equally enthusiastic shaking of the hand, it is clear that he has been asked to stand with the husband-to-be. As we are waiting the bride's appearance, Goodwife Dawson is extremely keen that they should depart to the church, and ushers out all but me; as I am, of course, to accompany her to the church in place of her late father.

I am no student of fashions, particularly those of women; but it is clear that the dress Molly wears is no hand-me-down; the cloth is a very fine wool in a rich blue - not dark enough to fall foul of the sumptuary laws, I note - cut well and trimmed with velvet around the neckline and cuffs. I can guess at once who would have paid for it.

"Master Cromwell is a generous man." Goody Dawson says, her voice a little choked, and a kerchief already dabbing at her eyes.

The entire household is present for the marriage, but we do not take up many seats in the church. My duty done, I return to sit beside Cromwell, and as I sit, I notice his expression. There is almost a paternal pride for the young woman who is showing such promise as an apprentice Second, but it is mixed with deep sadness that shows in the dampness about his eyes. This is the closest he can ever come to seeing his own daughters wed, for they died in childhood: the sweating sickness robbing him of the opportunity to celebrate for them. I suspect that he is also grieving for his lost wife, too. At least Gregory is approaching a marriageable age - that should be an occasion to remember, I'm sure.

We cannot stay for too long afterwards, which Wyatt bemoans rather tragically at the sight of the excellent wedding breakfast that would not look out of place at the King's table. We are granted at least some time to sample the fare, but before long, we are back on our horses and riding through Cheapside to return to Whitehall. I, too, have opted to return, as I have been late several times over the last few days thanks to the tide, and Wriothesley has been making rather pointed comments at my apparent tardiness.

Darkness is falling as we hand the horses back to the grooms, the air about us chill with coming frost. Cromwell assures us that William will have spiced, mulled cider ready for us, and our journey from the mews is taken at a brisk pace - partly against the cold, but partly to be indoors with the warm cider as soon as we may. It is as we cross one of the courts that we see it, and think we all seem to sigh in unison.

The raveners have found us.


	4. An Oddity of Religious Fervour

Despite the arrival of our tiresome nocturnal visitors, Cromwell seems quite insistent that I continue to visit Grant's Place as much as possible. Their behaviour is just as strange as previously - no apparent interest in their favourite pastime, and apparently content to share territory in a fashion that I thought was impossible. Certainly Cromwell did.

In some ways, I am relieved to be able to continue my escapes from the Palace, as Beauchamp seems intent upon refusing to forgive me for that stupid incident when I was too tired to think straight. Most men would have long since tired of such foolishness, but Edward Seymour is a proud man, and I am not as noble as he - though that is not saying much, for his nobility is granted by the King, not birth. Therefore, it seems I must be taught manners, courtesy of his two lurking retainers.

My continued researches seem to achieve nothing more than to increase my knowledge of the library's contents; which, while helpful in its way, does not bring me any closer to translating the paper that offers such a tantalising hope in our fight against Lamashtu. I know that these two items will destroy her: but what they are, how we find them and how we _use_ them remain beyond my understanding.

One of the few items left for me to explore is a collection of tales and legends that Wolsey has collected and set aside - presumably to be examined and catalogued. As he did not have time to do so, I look at it with interest. I am well acquainted with his system now, and perhaps I should put my knowledge to the test.

The first such tale concerns a Consul of Rome, and his concubine. It seems altogether more salacious than would be expected in such a setting as this, and I hastily set it aside, making a note to myself to read it later, when I have more time. If nothing else, Wyatt might find it amusing. I make a note on a sheet of paper, then reach for the next - which relates to a long Welsh saga of which I know little. I quickly add it to my list, taking great care to copy the words carefully, as they are in an unfamiliar language. Then I pick up a third.

This continues for nearly half an hour, as I am so quiet I can hear the small clock upstairs chiming the quarters. Some of the stories are familiar, while others are not. Some are engaging, others dull and one is even more shocking than the first one I came across. In each case I make careful note of the title, and a vague scrivening of its contents before setting it aside.

The next story I read sets out the story of a monster with one head, but two mouths - that can be destroyed only in fire. I am about to set it aside, but instead, as it is not that long, I decide to read it; though it is rather difficult to decipher. Whoever wrote the tale clearly took it from another language and did so very poorly, and I cannot help but reach for another sheet of paper, and attempt to paraphrase it, before reading it back:

_The Tale of Ríkur Lögfræðingur and the Quest for the twin fires._

_There was a great warrior - Ríkur Lögfræðingur, strong of arm and fair of face. No man was braver than he, and all trembled at his mighty sword arm._  

I snort at this; all legendary warriors seem to have a mighty sword arm - and everyone seems to tremble at it. 

_A monstrous beast ravaged the land, and none who quested against it returned. A monster with one head, but two mouths. No weapon could best it, and left no scar upon it - until a great Mage prophesied that only the twin fires, Blue Fire and Red Fire, could bring her to her end._

This gives me pause to think: no weapon can best it…as we discovered when Cromwell's silver swords failed to harm Lamashtu but for a brief moment. Then there is Blue Fire and Red Fire - the same word twice…could _blár_ mean 'Blue' and _rauður_ mean 'Red'? The word _rauður_ remains defiantly uncertain, but I can think of several words for 'blue' that sound at least a little similar. I am, perhaps, snatching at straws, but it is more than I had when I began this task, so I refuse to let up yet. 

_In his questing, Ríkur Lögfræðingur searched far and wide, and did not find the fires - for none could tell of any flame that was both blue and red. He came upon the God Thunor who saw his downcast face and besought him to tell of his sadness. When the warrior spoke of the fires, and his quest to find them, the God Thunor laughed loud and long, and told him with much mirth that he could seek forever and not end his quest. For each fire was a living jewel, one blue, the other red, in which the fires lived. To best the monster with one head, and two mouths, he must seek the jewels, and…_

And that is why it is short. A note at the end proclaims that the old parchment upon which it had been written was torn away at that point - there is no more. I have no idea if this warrior fellow found the jewels or not - and, if he did, how he used them. Through simple inference, I can presume with reasonable safety that he was looking for a sapphire and a ruby - as these are the most famed gems of the hues described - but nothing more. It's disappointing, but inevitable that matters seem not to work in my favour over this business, and I sigh as I reach out for another document.

Then I stop…fires…living in a jewel. I've seen it mentioned somewhere before - I know I have; in a document within this very library. As is often the case, the information we most desire our memory to provide is that which most eludes it, and I all but pound my head in my furious wish to drag out that remembrance. Where is it? _Where_?

"Mr Rich?" Molly appears at the foot of the stairs, her voice startling me, "Goody Dawson sent me. Supper is ready."

Frustrated though I am, I decide to let the matter rest, and join the household to devour an excellent leg of pork rubbed with salt and fennel seeds. Inevitably, as we eat and talk, the thought slips from my mind; and that is the key to my problem. It is as Goodwife Dawson is distributing warmed hippocras that I suddenly remember the reference, and leap from my chair with the shout "The Papal Catalogue!" which emerges rather more loudly than I intended, before bolting back to the chamber and rushing down the steps. Somewhere behind me, as I flee the room, I'm sure I hear a clatter, but in my excitement to find the reference I pay it no mind.

I can even now remember the exact place on the shelf where the reference volume lies. Another of Wolsey's excellent creations is a large catalogue setting out references to relics, objects and other such oddities that are considered to have supernatural properties. I'm sure it's there…I remember seeing it, living flames in a jewel…

" _YES!_ " I cannot help my shout of triumph as I thumb hastily through the pages and find what I am seeking: a reference to two gems, famed for the strange phenomenon of a living flame within each. A sapphire, and a ruby. I have no idea if the monster with one head and two mouths is Lamashtu, but I have - at last - found something of use. A sapphire, called Blue Fire, and a ruby, called Red Fire. God alone knows where they are, but it is much easier to find something if you know what it is. Such is my excitement that I cannot help but almost dance a small jig at the table. For the first time since I was introduced to this library, I have managed to use it to secure information without any help. I am so pleased, I have to take a few deep breaths - otherwise I might actually start to cry.

I am trembling, and my writing as I note down the references verges on the illegible; but as long as I can read it, this does not concern me. Carrying the precious notes back upstairs, I return to the room from which I fled to see three staring faces - two of whom look most bemused. Except for Goodwife Dawson, who is not pleased at all. It is then that I discover the reason for the clattering sound as I departed: she dropped the hippocras.

* * *

The morning is crisp again with a heavy frost, as Adrian plods comfortably through Cheapside. The Master of the Horse was most surprised, and somewhat bemused, when I offered to purchase this rather staid gelding that had almost become mine by default; but given the placid beast's unpopularity with the court, he did not demur. The only difference is to my purse, as I must now pay for his stable expenses, and I still revel somewhat in the relief of no longer having to sit in a freezing cold wherry being splashed with filthy river water.

My riding has improved considerably, too, and I no longer need the mounting block - though the assistance of a groom to boost me is still necessary; which is far less embarrassing, as a number of the better riders around the court need this service as well.

I still feel a solid sense of achievement as we make our leisurely way east. Even a night of sleep has not quelled my conviction that I have found the information we needed to start our quest - and I am quite eager to relate my discovery to Cromwell and Wyatt as soon as I am back at the Palace. At last I shall not be late today: Wriothesley is still inclined to look at me rather askance given my regular failures to start on time - even though he is not my master. He loathes disordered behaviour in the offices, and his elevation to King's Secretary has merely served to hone his fussiness to a very fine point.

Leaving Adrian with a groom, I make my way across rather slippery paths from the Mews to the Palace, carrying the satchel that holds my notes, and the papers that I could bring with me to support them. As I approach the gates, I can hear someone shouting, and risk a slightly faster speed, though my thick-soled boots do not help me to move quickly on the icy patches.

"Stand back, I say! Who goes there?" The challenge is loud, and rather angry. The voice is also familiar, as it is one of the best known about the Court: Will Paxton. A man who has guarded the gates for the King for so long that it almost seems that he has done so forever; there are few who have avoided a late night challenge from that strident voice, and I am not one of those few, "Stand Back!"

Concerned, I skid around a corner with surprisingly warlike elegance, and come to a halt to see Paxton brandishing his halberd with furious determination. He is, however, alone - for the only other person in the Court is myself - and I am behind him.

The Court is not large, and serves to contain a rather fine parterre garden for the pleasure of the Court's ladies, when it is not serving as a shortcut for palace officials such as myself. Amidst the carefully trimmed miniature hedges stand ornamental sculptures, here a lion, there a gryphon - all holding a shield bearing the device of a Court noble. For reasons I cannot fathom, Paxton is determinedly exhorting a gaudily painted wyvern to answer his challenge, and seems increasingly furious that it does not answer him.

"The King is to come this way!" He continues, angrily, "You must depart from this place at once! _At once!_ "

It does nothing - as one would have expected; other than Paxton, it seems. Then, bizarrely, he suddenly notices the other sculptures, and turns to threaten a unicorn, "And what of you? Are you all assassins? Must I destroy you one by one? Depart! Depart at once, I say! Or I shall do what I must to protect the King's Majesty!"

As the unicorn - understandably - ignores him, he steps back, preparing his halberd for a mighty swing. I expect the ladies of the court who use this place would be most put out by a decapitated unicorn, and hasten to his side, "Mr Paxton - what is this? Why are you challenging statues?"

He turns, his eyes wide, "Have a care, Mr Rich! They threaten the King's Majesty - he is to come this way, and if these are not gone, he might be killed!"

"There is no one here, Mr Paxton - they are but statues. There is no threat to his Majesty, for they have no arms; only shields. What harm could they do him? Are not shields protective?"

He looks bemused for a moment, staring about in confusion, and then he sets his eyes upon me with dreadful intent, "Unless, of course, Mr Rich, you are in league with them. You are, are you not? I can see you are! Stand aside, in the name of the King!"

He has that halberd in his hands, so I am not keen to argue. Raising my hands nervously, I step back as ordered, "I mean no harm, Mr Paxton - I assure you…"

"I shall not permit you to harm the King's Majesty!" he interrupts me, the halberd held low, ready to thrust - and then he pulls it back, and it begins to move towards me…

And then Zaebos is there - his eyes cruel, his voice that same low whisper… _but then, it remains to be seen whether or not you shall live long enough to deliver my message_ …

Such is my horror, that I cannot keep back the scream that leaps from my throat as the sharp blade surges forward towards me. Somehow, I manage to twist to the side, and the point of the halberd slices empty air where I had been standing, rather than biting into my side as the knife had done. Trembling violently, I back away to the wall - trying to force the horrible image from my mind…

"God have mercy, Mr Rich! Forgive me! What was I thinking?" Paxton is nearby, his expression stricken. Whatever had driven him to strike me down has vanished away, and he is horrified that he might have harmed me. I can feel myself going cold all over, and the need to escape this place is almost overwhelming - I cannot stay here…

"I am well, Mr Paxton, have no fears for me. I am unharmed…" I think I am babbling, but such is my keenness to flee that it is of no interest to me whether or not the guard is listening.

"Please, Mr Rich, I beg of you not to speak of this - if the Captain knew that I had assaulted a Courtier…"

I shake my head, again, I think - my head is spinning now, "I shall not…I shall not…be about your business…" my voice trails off, and I vaguely remember waving him away - or at least I think that is what I intend from the faint flapping of my arm. Then I turn and hurry to the nearest exit - not caring whether it leads into the palace, or back to the Mews. I just need to be away from anyone…

As soon as I can believe myself to be alone, I slump back against a wall and shut my eyes as tight as I can - anything to avoid that terrifying face gloating over me as I fell to the ground in that cellar. My breathing is fast, desperate - I want to run, but my legs won't work…Jesu…what is happening to me?

I have no idea how long I am there - but when I regain my senses, I am sitting on the ground, my knees drawn up, and clutching the satchel to my chest. It is most fortunate, however, that no one has come this way - or if they did, they fled from the sight of me. My heart is still racing somewhat, but I am calmer now, and I slowly clamber to my feet again, looking about to try and work out where I am.

As I become more orientated, I recover myself. All that remains now of that strange episode is a sense of humiliation - I screamed. For God's sake, I _screamed_. Like a woman. Thank God no one else heard me - Paxton won't mention it, and I certainly shan't. Taking a few deep breaths, I make my way through to one of the main courts, where I finally see a clock. It is nearly nine - so I amend my destination. Cromwell will have to wait: duty, and avoiding yet another hard stare from Wriothesley, calls.

* * *

I manage to avoid the dreaded Wrath of Wriothesley, as he is not present when I arrive in the office chambers. Instead, I set my satchel down under my desk, and reach for some papers. Daniel, one of the clerks, gave me an odd look as I arrived, and I suspect I must still be rather pale from my strange episode in the corridor: I have no idea what happened to me, and I hope that I am not becoming sick.

An hour or so of careful perusal of intricate legal wrangling works its restorative wonders, and by the time Cromwell arrives from a meeting with the King, I have fully recovered myself. He, however, looks as though he is attempting to re-settle his collar so that it stands higher than it should: I suspect that the King has struck him again. And things were going so well, too. At least I can provide him with some good news.

He does not come over and suggest we break for dinner, as he is extremely busy; so I decide to remain in the Palace tonight in hopes that we might meet over supper. It would be a shame to not be able to pass on my information tonight - if nothing else, it might cheer him up, as he has been rather downcast since returning. From the whispering of the clerks, I learn that, sure enough, there is a nasty red weal on his neck, and one of the pages in the Privy Chamber has reported that the king struck at him with a belt for some reason or other. No one is entirely sure what that reason might be - though I suspect the rumours will become wilder with the telling as the news spreads. There are few who do not relish tales of the abuse that the King inflicts on the Lord Chancellor when so minded.

Sure enough, as the evening approaches, Cromwell stops at my desk, clearly taking care to keep the collar of his doublet high, and invites me to join him in his chambers for some supper. Ignoring his rather unsuccessful attempt to conceal his injury, I pull out the satchel, "I look forward to it: I have some news - and it has been long in the finding, and I have learned much in the finding of it, but I think we shall all be pleased that it has been found."

To my surprise, he smiles - a sudden, pleased smile that flickers across his face as though he is proud of me. Embarrassed, I quickly put the satchel down, and return to my papers until it is time to depart for the day.

As usual, Wyatt is with us, and we sit down to a fine repast of beef and bread. Cromwell has given up trying to conceal the welt on his neck, and reveals that it was, indeed, caused by a belt. The King is not pleased with the progress of the bills for the reforms - as they are being stalled by the social reforms that must precede them - and several of the Councillors are procrastinating over trifling details. Needless to say, this is, in the eyes of the King, entirely Cromwell's fault, and he expressed his displeasure while looking over some fine new accessories to accompany the suit he is to wear for the Christmastide Mass.

"I am," Cromwell advises, "given to understand that the quality of the leatherwork on the belt used to mark me was some of the finest that the Master of the Robes has ever seen." He rarely allows the abuse Henry throws at him to disturb him for long - as his low-born station allows the King to do so with impunity. Who, after all, can he complain to? Instead, he finishes his claret and turns to me, "So, Mr Rich, what is that you have found?"

I burrow into the satchel and retrieve the notes I made, and the papers from which I made them. I could not bring the entire Papal Catalogue, so I have noted that entry, too, "I found this amidst a collection of myths and legends that Wolsey did not have the opportunity to catalogue. My intention was to catalogue them myself to test my understanding of his system and method - but I think, in doing so, I have inadvertently discovered the nature of the two objects that are required to destroy Lamashtu."

"You have?" Wyatt asks, his eyes widening in interest, "We can fight her, then?" I know he is particularly keen to do this - for the sole reason that it will grant him vengeance for his beloved, late Anne.

I shake my head, "Not yet. I know what they _are_ \- but not _where_ , or once we find them, how we use them. We do, however, know what we are looking for, at least. It is always easier to find something when you know what it is that you are seeking."

Cromwell is reading my short paraphrase, and hands it to Wyatt without comment. Instead we wait for him to apprise himself of my notes as well. When he is done, which does - after all - not take long, he looks up, "So, we are looking for a pair of jewels?"

I nod, "The entry in the Papal Catalogue confirms what the legend states - a sapphire and a ruby, which seem to contain living fire within their depths."

"How do we find them?" Wyatt asks, a question I had been dreading, as I have no answer for it.

"I shall write to the House." Cromwell advises, "The High can set our spies upon the search. If they cannot find the jewels, then the jewels do not exist. As the evidence shows that they do, they shall be uncovered." He looks most pleased, "Well found, Richie, very well found. I imagine you must feel that you have truly achieved something of worth. If you do not, then you should."

"Goodwife Dawson was not at all pleased." I admit, "But my remembrance of where I had found the reference to the Jewels in the Papal Catalogue made me shout rather loudly and exit the chamber in which we were supping at some speed. Such was her shock that she dropped a full pitcher of hippocras on the carpet."

Wyatt laughs loudly at this, and our discussion dissolves into more general gossip. Now that Cromwell will be able to act on the information I have provided, I feel that I have finally begun to show my worth as a Second, and I am happy to put all thoughts of Lamashtu to one side, as Christmastide is all but upon us, and there are far more enjoyable activities to celebrate in the next few days.

As Cromwell's prized venetian clock strikes the hour of nine, we are surprised at the sound of knocking upon his door. Bemused, he answers it himself, rather than call William to do it for him. We do not see who is without, but his expression is extremely startled, and he bows, awkwardly. Someone of consequence is outside the door: Lord, has the King come to apologise for lashing at him with the belt?

Still confused, he steps back and opens the door more fully, and we are immediately on our feet out of respect for the Lady Mary, who is standing in the doorway, cloaked and with a hood up - apparently as a disguise. She steps in with such an air of secrecy that we wonder what on earth is happening - and she seems not to care that we are present as we bow as awkwardly as Cromwell did. What the hell is she doing in his Chambers? She hates him - and she has little liking for us, either.

"My Lord Chancellor," she says, her expression eager, nervous, "forgive my troubling you at such a late hour, but I did not wish to draw unwarranted attention to you, given what I have to say."

He nods, uncertainly, looking at her as though she is a snake about to strike him.

"I have seen the light - the light that cuts through the darkness and foul corruption of popish superstition, and I cry for your forgiveness for my hatred of the truth that you have seen already." She sounds quite breathless, "I know that you are a true Christian man - and I ask most humbly for your help in learning more of the truth that lies in the words of Luther. Might you have books that I may borrow?"

I have never heard him stammer before, but he struggles to get any word out of his mouth, as though he fears she is attempting to entrap him. We feel much the same - Wyatt is very much interested in the lutheran cause, though my own interest is far weaker and largely rests on the fact that the King is looking in the same direction at the moment. Until a few moments ago, Mary would have happily denounced us to anyone who might be able to bind us to a stake - but now she seems desperate to abandon the faith that she has clung to so fiercely? Something is very wrong with her - either that or she is indeed attempting to trap us into admitting that we are heretics. I am no more certain than Cromwell is - but then she does something entirely unexpected, and falls at his feet.

"I cry you mercy, My Lord!" she cries, "Do not deny me this! My heart yearns for God's loving truth!"

Now I know that she is not trying to entrap us - she has all the fierce pride of her Spanish mother, and nothing on earth would prompt her to bow down at the feet of a man born so low - and certainly one for whom she has such enmity. She would not even grant Wyatt or I such a privilege; but if she is not deceiving us, then what in Christ's name is wrong with the girl? Has she gone mad?

Cromwell fumbles for an excuse, any excuse, to divert her, "I…er, that is, My Lady…I…um…do not have any such books in my chambers, I…"

"Then might I come to your offices tomorrow, My Lord?" She asks, still on her knees, looking up at him with adoration as though he is some sort of glorious angel, "Wherever you may keep such texts - or, perhaps you might be able to introduce me to a preacher of knowledge? I have allowed my soul to wither for too long! Show me to the oasis of God's love for his children!"

Dear God - what _is_ she wittering on about? Not even the most rabid of the preachers speak so! Wyatt and I are staring at each other in open mouthed disbelief. Even the _worst_ of his poetry - the ghastly doggerel he writes in jest for those who wish to impress the ladies they are chasing - does not speak in such terms.

"It is best if you do not come to our Chambers, My Lady," I advise her, as Cromwell seems too mortified to speak, "Luther's words are still considered to be heretical. It might be best if…"

She does not let me finish, "But you are right, Mr Rich, of course. Forgive me," she is trying to rise now, and Wyatt hastens forward to assist her, as Cromwell has gone completely rigid, "I shall come here again on the morrow in hopes that you might have been able to secure some texts that I might turn to in order to cleanse my soul of all corrupt elements before we celebrate our most wondrous saviour's birth." Smiling at us all in turn, and bobbing girlish curtseys, she opens the door and is gone as swiftly as she arrived.

We turn to Cromwell, who still does not move, his expression an absolute picture. Never before have we seen him look so terrified.

Wyatt turns, "Is it just me, or does defeating Lamashtu sound like the easier task ahead of us?"


	5. Cromwell on the Run

I shut the door hastily, and turn back to Wyatt, "What on earth is wrong with her?" It is largely a rhetorical question, as I cannot consider that he could answer it any more than I could. Cromwell certainly can't, as he still hasn't moved; Wyatt regards him for a moment, "Do you think, if I prodded him, he would topple backwards like a felled tree?"

"I should slap you first." Is Cromwell's response, though he still looks deeply unsettled by the incident.

"In answer to your question," Wyatt resumes, returning to one of the chairs we abandoned when we rose to greet our visitor, "unless she has experienced a revelation akin to Paul's upon the road to Damascus - which, given her nature, I doubt - perhaps it is a jest, in deference to the season?"

Somehow, I can no more see the deadly serious Lady Mary involved in madcap japes than I can see her discarding her Rosary, "But her behaviour is so odd…"

"Odd?" Wyatt asks, "Let me tell you about 'odd'. I heard tell two days past of the Fish Cook in the kitchens who, while preparing a fine display of shellfish for the King's table, became most vexed with the prawns: for they were - in his words - refusing to sing _Good Pastymes and Pleasant Companye_ either in step or in tune. Furthermore, their legs refused to move according to his most careful instructions. Before one of the Pastry cooks intervened, he was threatening to throw them into the fire for their intransigence; and I believe he might well have done so had he not been led away. He was still cursing them an hour later."

Cromwell and I stare at him, silenced by the strangeness of it; but it seems that this is not all.

"A good friend of mine told me a story of equal interest no more than four days ago: He came upon a furious argument - or so it seemed to him as he overheard the angry words being spoken from the other side of the Walled Garden. Thinking that some fight might break out, he hastened into the garden to find a gardener berating a small robin in the most strident of terms, as the bird had conspired with a wretched mob of sparrows to rob his herb-bed of fine worms. He was, as approached, demanding that the creature give him the name of the chief conspirator - accusing one of the cockerels in the nearby hen-coop." Then, he laughs, "But I have, gentlemen, saved the best until last, for I have witnessed an altercation of my own."

If he expects us to comment, we disappoint him - so he carries on, regardless, "I myself, only yesterday, came upon a most remarkable scene in one of the lower Presence Chambers. That insufferable old windbag Mr Jameson - a courtier of such little talent that I suspect none shall ever hear his name again - appeared to be doing all that he could to ensure he would not be forgotten." He pauses to take a sip of the hippocras that William has kindly dispensed during our discussion, "You shall note, of course, the magnificent new Flemish tapestry that arrived not six months ago, and is now resplendent for all to enjoy: the one that features noble Heracles preparing to battle the Nemean Lion? Well, imagine the scene - Mr Jameson, in his drab doublet and rather moth-eaten simarre, demanding that the heroic demigod regard him with better manners - or step forth and be taught the strength of an old man's fist."

I have to think this through, "Are you suggesting that this man was trying to provoke a fight with a figure in a _tapestry_?"

"Not a word of a lie." Wyatt is very pleased with my response, "Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I, too would have been astounded at such a thing. And he is normally such a quiet, retiring individual. I have no idea why he remains at Court: I cannot imagine that the King's Grace could even guess who he is."

"I, too, have seem something like this," I venture, suddenly, "This morning, when I was returning from the Mews."

Now Cromwell and Wyatt turn their attention to me, though Wyatt's expression is more eager, I think; Cromwell is still rather in shock.

"Tell on, Mr Rich," Wyatt grins, cheerfully, "Is it as remarkable as Mr Jameson?"

"Perhaps." I answer, "I came upon Will Paxton, though I heard him before I saw him - he was issuing a challenge, and I was concerned that he might be facing an intruder, so I hurried into the Parterre Court to offer my assistance."

"And?" Wyatt prompts,

"I found him challenging an ornamental statue - a wyvern. He was most vexed, and had his halberd ready to strike out - for he thought the king was coming, and that the wyvern was some assassin that threatened him. Then he turned upon a unicorn, and would have decapitated it for certain had I not intervened." I stop. I have no intention of going any further with that narrative.

"What happened then?" Wyatt immediately asks.

"He seemed to come out of it - I know not what it was. He was most eager that I mention it to no one, however, particularly not the Captain of the Guard. He is growing older now, and fears that he might be let go. If he exhibits behaviour such as this, of course - I mean…" I grind to a halt. I'm babbling again, and I know that will demonstrate to Wyatt, more than any other sign, that something else happened that I do not wish to mention.

"And now we have the Lady Mary battering down the Lord Chancellor's door, demanding that he help her turn her back on her so-called 'true' religion." Wyatt finishes. He has not noticed my rambling, thank God.

"Has someone put something in the wine?" I venture, not particularly seriously.

"Well, something has certainly been put into something." Wyatt adds, "Even if we were to preside over the festivities of old, where a Lord of Misrule reigned over all - I think no one could create something so remarkably strange."

"Can we be certain that the Lady Mary has been afflicted as these others were?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, the first time he has spoken since he snapped that quick riposte at Wyatt's earlier joke, "Might she not have seen through the fog of the incense?"

We look at him, pointedly.

"Or she's been afflicted as the others were." He concedes, then rises from his chair - clearly very eager to change the subject, "Come, gentlemen, we have raveners to hunt."

"Let us hope that Mary does not come to watch." Wyatt grins.

* * *

When I arrive at the offices the following morning, Cromwell is not present. Nor, fortunately, is the Lady Mary. Perhaps she has indeed recovered herself. I am not particularly concerned, as I am more unsettled by another violent nightmare that accosted me as I slept. Zaebos will not leave me in peace, it seems; and I cannot help but wonder if I shall ever be free of him. I certainly could not face the breakfast that John provided this morning.

As today is the last day that we shall be working before the Christmastide celebrations begin, Wriothesley is particularly insistent that the clerks complete as much as possible. We shall not resume until after the year has turned; and he is most keen to avoid left-over papers from the old year impinging upon those that shall certainly arise in the new.

I had intended to depart for my own home during this time - but the strange occurrences at Court, added to the numbers of raveners that have reached the same levels as they had at Placentia before we removed, has put paid to that. I am required to stay - as is Wyatt; and Cromwell shall only leave briefly for the main festivities, as Gregory is returning home to celebrate, and he requires to travel but a few miles to see his only remaining child.

When he finally arrives in the offices, much later than usual, Cromwell has the look of a hunted man, and he summons me to join him in a quiet chamber nearby. He says nothing, but instead hands me a note. Bemused, I take it and begin to read.

 

_My Most Gentle Mr Cromwell,_

_Forgive my rude letter - which I must, perforce, hand to you through the kindness of my servants and yours. I trust you will forgive my unseemly appearance in your chambers this night past, for my discovery that I have been in error for so many years played greatly upon my mind, and I desired to seek out a fellow spirit in God's light._

_I also trust that you would not refuse my ardent wish to search more deeply into this most magnificent discovery, that is - I feel, akin to that of Saint Paul upon his journey to Damascus, whereupon he was blinded by God's true light. I am blind, as was he, and must seek out others to aid me as I seek the way._

_None speak of it, but all know that you are keen to seek reform, and I would give my all to stand at your side as you lead England to its liberation from the shackles of Rome. I beg you to allow me access to those texts you possess that will aid my understanding of all that must be done to bring us to the true faith._

_With my deepest hopes of your kind answer,_

_Mary_

 

I dare not look up at Cromwell, for I am certain that I shall laugh. While much of Mary's letter would be considered heretical by all and sundry, the tones in which it is couched have brought me close to choking twice, and I nearly dropped the letter entirely at her exhortation that she would stand at his side to lead England to liberation. Any lingering sense of horror I feel at my bad night is dispelled by the realisation that, no matter how bad things might seem to me; at present, they are far worse for Cromwell.

I know I must not laugh. It would be a dreadful thing to laugh…

But I laugh. Until tears are in my eyes and I struggle to breathe. The reproachful look on his face does nothing to stop me - but leaves me helpless against the wall. I cannot stop myself.

"This is a ridiculous missive!" I manage, eventually, once I get my breath back, "She sounds like a maid in the first grip of calf love!"

"She expects a reply, Mr Rich." He has become dreadfully formal, and I realise that he is far more worried than I am - and that my helpless amusement has mildly offended him.

"Forgive me, Thomas," I apologise, "I meant no harm - my laughter was inappropriate."

"But hardly unjustified." Cromwell sighs, leaning back against the wall of the chamber beside me, "Were I not the intended recipient of this message, I suspect I, too, would have been reduced to such mirth. But I am - and thus, I am not." He looks at me then, almost afraid, "How do I respond to this? I have no idea how to answer such questions in safety either for her or for me; even if she who asked them were serious in her intent. If she retains anything I write - what then?"

"It might be better to do so in person, then." I suggest, "Spoken words cannot be offered up in evidence as easily as written ones."

"Are you suggesting that I _meet_ her?" he looks appalled.

"Not _you_ ; _us_. All of us - you, me and Wyatt. I can chaperone you, and Wyatt can chaperone me."

"And who is chaperoning Wyatt?"

We return to the offices, ignoring the harassed stare that Wriothesley directs at us, as we have been absent without his knowledge of our whereabouts for nearly an hour. We do, at least, have our respective workloads between us to keep us from being found in the corridors by the newly Protestant Mary, and so we are spared the risk of her trailing behind us. Assuming that she _is_ so smitten.

As the day closes, however, we discover, to Cromwell's deep dismay, that she is _absolutely_ smitten - not only with the new Faith, but also - it appears - with him. She is waiting in a corridor that adjoins the one leading to his apartments; looking nervous and fearful in a manner that seems alien to one as proud and regal as she. Her dress is a rich crimson trimmed with gold and fur - as she has abandoned her mourning weeds now she is back in her father's favour - and she wears a fine scent of hyacinth and spice. Not, fortunately, for my benefit - but from the look of mild panic in Cromwell's eyes, we both know that it is for his.

"My most gracious Lord Chancellor," she says, a little breathlessly, before sinking into a frighteningly deferential curtsey towards one so low-born, "I trust I am not disturbing you?"

From his increasing consternation, I can see she is disturbing Cromwell very much indeed, but we are trapped - there is no polite way to extricate ourselves from this encounter. Hastily, we both bow with the appropriate deference for her rank: not a princess, but nevertheless a daughter of a King.

"The Solicitor…" his voice comes out as a rather odd squeak, and he clears his throat to try again, "that is…the Solicitor General and I were about to adjourn to a meeting over supper, my Lady - forgive me, but our topics of discussion at such affairs are of a legal bent and therefore most tedious for those who are not versed in the manners of lawyers."

"But of course," She smiles, dropping again into another terrifyingly over-deferential curtsey, "I understand - I trust that we might meet tomorrow? If you are able."

"It is Christmas Night tomorrow, my Lady," I remind her, bowing again, "I fear there shall be little opportunity - and I understand Mr Cromwell shall be spending the following day at his home with his son and extended family. Another time, perhaps?"

The look she gives me is startling, a vicious glare that suggests my interference is most definitely unwelcome; but she cedes the point, and pushes past me to approach Cromwell directly, taking his hand in hers, "I trust we shall meet soon, Mr Cromwell." For a ghastly moment, I am terrified that she might plant a kiss on his cheek, or offer some other sign of affection. From the look on his face as she departs, I think he was, too. Christ, I think I might start laughing again…

* * *

Christmastide Eve has set everyone to celebrating. The Clerks receive purses of monies from the Lord Chancellor - and, as I suspected, he has added a substantial bonus for their heroic work in getting us from Placentia to Whitehall with only three day's notice. As he will depart for Austin Friars on the morrow, he invites us to his Chambers for a celebratory supper prior to the midnight mass that we are all expected to attend; secure in the knowledge that Mary shall be with her father and stepmother - and thus kept well away from his door. Though, if truth be told, I suspect that the reason we are supping with him is not just for companionship, but to ensure that he is not alone if she _does_ come visiting.

I have brought two bottles of good sack with me, as I suspect from his largesse to the Clerks, and the fine bottle of rare and expensive brandy he presented to Wriothesley, that there might be something each for Wyatt and myself; and it would be most impolite to visit upon such a night without something to offer. I am right - as he presents me with a fine pair of soft leather gauntlets, each embossed at the corner with his sigil, to signify that I am his Second, while he presents Wyatt with a bottle of the poet's favourite mead - something that he seems to do each year, as Wyatt's pleasure is not just at the gift, but at the expectedness of it as a traditional act.

As he shall not be present at the large feast over which Henry shall preside on the morrow, we sup on a rather fine turkey-cock that has been very well turned, while the frumenty has been spiced and laced with sweet wine, and roasted artichokes from the autumn crop drip with sage butter. There is a minced pye, rich with fruits, spices and mutton, and - assuming that we have not eaten our fill - a dish of sweetmeats to follow. We dare not take too much of the wassail cup that William has provided, however, as we would make a most unimpressive sight at the Midnight mass if we arrived well gone in drink.

I note that Cromwell does not intend to go unprepared, as - while he cannot wear one of his swords, he shall instead have a short, silver bladed knife to hand. With the court full of celebrants in various states of inebriation, the presence of raveners makes for a dangerous combination, and he does not mean to be caught unready as a result of the ban on weaponry while the King is in residence. To my surprise, the doublet he wears - not one I have seen before - contains a concealed pocket at the front on the left side, so that he can hide the weapon, but reach for it if the need arises. With his finest simarre over the top, no one would realise that there was a blade within easy reach of his Majesty.

That said, he does not look particularly keen to be present - though I suspect his reasons are threefold. The service will undoubtedly be full of catholic symbolism, which he dislikes intensely, he would much rather be keeping raveners at bay given the number of unsuspecting drunkards that will be about the court tonight, and Mary shall be there. Assuming that her sudden aversion to all things Popish is still in place, she might cause a scene - and if she does, she could well bring Cromwell into it. I hope fervently that her self control is still sufficiently present to keep her from doing something foolish in such a public place.

As the time for the mass approaches, we depart to the Chapel Royal together. As Cromwell and I are Court Officials of sufficient standing, our attendance is expected - unless we are celebrating elsewhere, which we are not. Wyatt is such a fixture about the Court that no one remarks at his presence, and we stand together to one side as the King and Queen arrive. The air around us is illuminated, and warmed slightly, by a multitude of candles, while Gardiner, since Cranmer is at Canterbury, brings forth another to light one held by the King, which he then uses to light one held by his Queen. All around us the air is alive with the shimmer of boys' voices as they sing a motet to celebrate the birth of the Christ. Despite the ceremony, it is very affecting, and I am enjoying it rather - until I see Mary.

While the music continues, she is looking across at us - no, not us: Cromwell. Her eyes suggest a wish to be much closer to him than she is; and not just in terms of proximity. Hell, she _does_ fancy him…

I hastily drop my eyes to the floor, knowing that if I don't, I shall start to laugh. No wonder he is so rigidly focused on the High Altar: if he has seen _that_ , he will be in a panic all over again. Beside me, I can feel Wyatt shaking, and I know that he is doing an even worse job than I am to conceal his helpless amusement at the Raven's plight. This does nothing for my own composure, and I surreptitiously conceal myself behind a pillar, as I cannot remain visible - not when I am fighting so hard not to break into helpless peals of laughter.

The mass lasts for an hour - and I imagine it must have been one of the longest hours of Cromwell's life. As people begin to disperse, I can see Mary is looking around, trying to see him - but he has, not surprisingly, melted into the crowd and fled. Such is his fear that she might corner him that he has not even waited for us. Fortunately, she cannot come across to us to ask where he has gone, as she is expected to remain with her immediate family - but her disappointed ardour is a sight to behold. Wyatt and I exchange a glance, and also flee as quickly as we may. No sooner are we away from the crowds, than we are both helpless with laughter.

"God help him!" Wyatt chortles, "He is a dead man if the Lady Mary begs the King for his hand - and his Majesty consents!"

"We had best find him, I think." I add, a little breathless from laughing, "I imagine any ravener he has encountered has not lived long enough to rue finding him in such an embarrassed state."

As we search, keeping as silent as we can, we overhear a surreptitious discussion in progress. At the mention of Cromwell's name, we both stop dead. From the Savoyard accent, it is clear who the speaker is: Eustace Chapuys - though his companion is unknown to either of us.

"…Jane is very much for the restoration of all that England has rejected - that could be seen in the joyous celebration this very night, but I fear that the Lord Chancellor is acting to subvert the attentions of the Lady Mary," He hisses, "She has spoken of little else but he for two days."

"But why? She is but a girl!" the other whispers back.

"And an impressionable one - she has, after all, been denied the wise guidance of her dear mother, and now the sainted Queen Katherine is with God. For that evil creature, to gain the hand of the King's daughter would be the greatest of coups…and she seems to see no wrong in him…or his vile heresies!"

Wyatt and I exchange a glance - suddenly the amusement is gone. If Chapuys were to sound it about the courts of Europe that Cromwell is attempting to steal the hand of the King's eldest daughter - not only would his reputation, such as it is, be in absolute tatters, but he would almost certainly be sent to the scaffold for such a presumption, if only to salve Henry's embarrassment.

"What do you intend to do?" the other man asks.

"At this moment? Nothing - it may, after all, burn itself out. I am sure the scales shall fall from her eyes - God willing - and she shall see him for the scorpion that he is."

Well, I certainly agree with him on that score - though not about the scorpion. Please _God_ let it burn itself out. If nothing else, it's dreadfully embarrassing to watch.

The conversation moves on to other things of no interest to us, and we sneak away. Neither of us are laughing now; Cromwell needs to know the danger into which the Lady Mary is placing him…

"Rich." Wyatt suddenly grips my arm, and we stop dead.

Ahead of us, a cloaked figure moves, holding a simple candle lantern. From the width of the skirts, the individual is clearly a woman of considerable substance, and then we both mutter a curse as she turns, and her face is illuminated briefly.

"Jesu - what is she thinking?" I whisper, as the Lady Mary looks about rather hopefully, if forlornly, for the man she thinks that she loves. Such is her ardour that she is willing to risk her reputation and - in our terms, her very _life_ \- to find him. With so many raveners about the court, she could be in hideous danger, but then, so could we be if she sees us at work.

She is also in our way. We need to pass her, but without her seeing us for who we are. I am at a loss - how on earth do we disguise ourselves?

Wyatt prods my arm, "Act drunk." He proceeds to lean against me rather heavily, so I lean back, and together we stagger into the small court where she is waiting, doing our best to fail to sing a lewd ditty about The Woman From Cheapside Who Does It On The Cheap, falling into each other, and sniggering idiotically. I suspect that I am over-acting dreadfully, but our behaviour is so reprehensible that the lady looks away from us at once without seeing who we are, and quickly flees - hopefully back to the royal apartments where she belongs.

No sooner has she gone, than Wyatt turns to me, still looking magnificently drunk; "Might I say, Mr Rich," he says, slurring outrageously, "That you are a _terrible_ actor." He hiccups theatrically, then straightens up, grinning, "Now, let's find our terror-stricken Raven, shall we?"

We see no raveners as we hasten as swiftly as we can through the corridors - either the additional light has caused them to flee, or Cromwell has slaughtered them all. By the time we give up and return to his Quarters, everywhere is silent, and even the most determined celebrants have headed for their beds. Fortunately, he is there, but he is pacing back and forth as we arrive, and the look of relief upon his face when he sees William admit us suggests that he feared the knock on the door might be his new admirer.

"Maybe we should devise a secret knock?" Wyatt asks, cheerfully.

Cromwell is most dismayed to discover that we came upon Mary attempting to seek him out in the corridors of the palace, but this is nothing compared to his horror when William admits that she was there only because she had called after the end of the service, and he had been obliged to suggest she return to her own apartments, as his master had not yet returned. I suspect he shall not sleep tonight; instead he shall leave for Austin Friars even before first light in the hopes that she shall not see him. Such is her determination to find him that I am not at all convinced that he could reach the Mews undetected by any means other than the rooftops. Despite his inscrutable expression, there is a twinkle of amusement in William's eyes.

"Thomas, you should know," I decide to tell him of our overheard conversation, "Chapuys has noticed Mary's behaviour. It seems that she has not been discreet in her discussions of you - and he thinks you to be subverting her."

"Actually," Wyatt interrupts, "He thinks you are seducing her."

" _What_?" I have never heard Cromwell's voice quite that high before - such a panicked timbre usually comes from me, "Dear God - is he serious?"

"Completely - though he is in hopes that she shall see through your subterfuge and spurn you before long. I imagine he does not wish to refer this to the Holy Roman Emperor unless there is a suggestion of marriage." Wyatt is so irritatingly cheerful, "He called you a scorpion."

"Tom," Cromwell says, almost painfully, "Please: just stop talking."

Wyatt bows, "As you command, my Lord."

Cromwell sits down in a nearby chair. I have never seen him so utterly at a loss - either in his work or upon his mission. After a few minutes, he looks up at us, "What am I to do?"

"The only thing you _can_ do:" I suggest, "What you have planned to do. I have no doubt that Mary shall be cooped up with her family for all of tomorrow, just as you shall be visiting yours. Even in the deepest fathoms of her apparent ardour, she cannot leave the celebrations at the Palace to visit yours in Shoreditch."

"And when I return in the evening? What then?"

"I am sure she shall still be closely confined with the King and Queen. Their festivities shall last well into the evening and even the night." I think for a moment, "If it would be of help, I could meet you in the Mews - if you are accompanied, she might be deterred from accosting you - perhaps out of pique for you are not alone. She is, after all, most keen to speak to you without any other person present."

"I should be careful if I were you, Mr Rich," Wyatt is still grinning happily, "if she were to find you there, she might try to kill you to keep you away from him."

There is no reason for us to stay any longer, and I suspect that, if he does not depart soon, Wyatt might find himself on the receiving end of a resounding blow, for it is clear that his continued jesting is beginning to fray Cromwell's already precarious hold on his temper. With that in mind, I nudge him, and jerk my head back toward the door. From my expression, Wyatt appreciates that I am completely serious, and finally stops making smart comments. Instead, he turns back to his patron, "Wishes of the season to you, Thomas."

I mumble something similar, and we leave him in peace.

* * *

Thanks to my late night, I sleep well into the morning, and it is only through John's remembering to wake me that I am present for the morning services at the Chapel Royal; only just arriving in time. As Cromwell is absent, and Wyatt has made other arrangements to celebrate with some of his other friends, I am at something of a loss for much of the rest of the day. Never before have I been more dismayed at the lack of friends I have at court.

"Sir Richard," I turn at the sound of my name, and groan inwardly at the sight of the Lady Mary, her eyes rather wide, "Might I prevail upon you for your assistance? Is Mr Cromwell returning tonight?"

God, what am I supposed to tell her? That he is? That he isn't? That I do not know? What if she takes it upon herself to wait at the Mews as I intend to? Rather desperately, I bow deeply - as I should - in the hopes that the pause might bring some inspiration. It does not. Instead I fumble for words, and I am not sure that what I say makes much sense, as she looks at me with concern, "Are you quite well, Mr Rich?"

Oh, dear God - now Chapuys has seen us. He is watching us as intently as he can while maintaining at least a pretence of conversing with his companion, "I am not sure, My Lady," I venture, my voice wavering slightly - to my embarrassment, "I could ask his Manservant if you wish?"

"That would be most kind!" she smiles, delightedly, before grasping my hand. To my dismay, she has a piece of paper concealed in her palm, which she is trying to give to me. Rather than humiliate myself even further by dropping it, I accept it. I can only imagine it is another letter. Please, Christ, don't let it be a poem…

Still smiling happily, she turns and hurries off with one of her ladies, leaving me to face the Savoyard's badly concealed fascination. Rather than give myself away by transferring the small paper to one of my pockets, I instead about-turn and flee to my apartments. I should be present at the feasting that is still ongoing in the hall, but my appetite is quite lost, thanks to the awkwardness of my encounter. Not that anyone would miss me.

As evening closes in, I fetch out my poniard and conceal it under a cloak. I have no doubt that we shall hunt tonight, as the number of inebriates about the court would be an open invitation to any infernal creature eager for easy sport. Setting a black velvet bonnet on my head - partly for concealment, but mostly to protect against the chill of the winter air, I leave my quarters with the air of someone who has no secrecy about their plans.

I am not fool enough to go straight to the Mews, as I have convinced myself that I shall have a surreptitious follower, so instead, I make my way to Wyatt's door, and hope desperately that he is there. As I walk, I can hear footsteps behind me - someone is indeed following me, and trying very hard to stop their shoes striking the flagstones with as much noise as a lady's heel can sometimes make. Damn.

Fortunately, I am in luck, as Wyatt is present. As I enter his quarters, he looks about, and waves at someone he knows, calling "Christmastide Greetings to you, Timothy!" across the corridor. Then he ushers me inside, "She's followed you."

"I know. Damn and blast it. I'm supposed to be meeting Thomas in the Mews - but I thought I might acquire a shadow, so I came to you instead on the chance that it would happen."

"My, my - you're a clever fellow when you put your mind to it, Mr Rich."

"Shut your mouth up, Mr Wyatt. I'm trapped here, now."

"Not so," He smiles, turning, "James, could you assist me, please?"

His manservant appears, an expression of enquiry upon his face, "Yes Sir?"

Wyatt snatches up a piece of paper, and scribbles a quick note, "Mr Rich and I are returning to the hall. Once we have departed, could you deliver this to Mr Rich's Manservant, please?"

"Yes sir."

Snatching up a short cloak, Wyatt dons it, and turns to me, "Let us go back to the hall, Mr Rich. There is still another remove to be served, I think - for those who are not of sufficient stature to dine with the King and Queen. My appetite is most keen. I trust yours is too?"

As though it has been cued in a play, my stomach growls; and I nod with rather more enthusiasm than Wyatt is anticipating. I have no need to ask what he has put in the note. He is dispatching _his_ manservant with a note to _my_ manservant to tell him to warn William. With luck we can keep Mary busy while Cromwell returns - and William can get him safely back to his quarters without his ardent admirer making a further attempt to secure Protestant tracts from him. God, what a mess.

As we leave, Wyatt behaves most ebulliently, describing the ribaldry in the hall during the afternoon: mumming, songs and an enormous Turkey-cock stuffed with five other birds and forcemeat, all inside a pastry coffin. While such a delicacy is hardly unexpected at the King's table, he describes it with such relish that I can almost imagine that such a thing has never been seen before in Christendom, and I cannot help but enjoy his tale. As he speaks, he turns to face me, walking backwards for a moment, before turning around again, and breaking off his story briefly, "She is behind us."

I nod, slightly, and he carries on. I can only assume that Mary is following us in the hopes that Cromwell has opted to join the festivities in the hall. As the three of us are seen together so regularly, it is - perhaps - a reasonable assumption to make, and we make the best use of it that we can.

The hall, when we arrive, is crammed with people, the atmosphere a heady mixture of roasting meats, woodsmoke, sweat and other more unpleasant odours thanks to those who could not be bothered to leave the hall to visit the jakes. Needless to say, their Majesties, and most of the high nobles, have long departed, and the level of decorum has dropped considerably as a result.

"She will not wish to come in here," I warn Wyatt, "Even if it were not so debauched as it seems to be at first glance, she will know for certain that her idol would not wish to be seen in such a bacchanalian tableau."

Wyatt nods, "I think we should look as though we are reconsidering, and move on."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere that has a large gathering of people. It is fully dark now - and if there are raveners abroad, we must ensure that she is protected by numbers." He looks at me, "Have you your poniard?"

I nod, "Concealed under my cloak. Though I hope not to need it - my abilities to spear a ravener with it are more owing to luck than skill."

As we turn back, to my relief, Mary has been discovered. Not by a ravener, but by one of Queen Jane's ladies: Elizabeth Jerningham. We cannot hear their conversation, but it is clear that Mary is most insistent that she be allowed to go about her business unmolested. Fortunately, Miss Jerningham is equally insistent that she return to her apartments, and I vaguely overhear the words 'Her Majesty' which suggests that Queen Jane has noticed her stepdaughter's absence and is keen to know her whereabouts.

With obvious anger, Mary allows herself to be escorted away, and both Wyatt and I sigh with relief. She should be confined for the duration, and we are now free to find Cromwell and chase down any raveners that might be abroad this night.

I knock softly at the door when we reach Cromwell's apartments, as the hour is late. It takes William a surprising time to open the door. When he does, his expression is one of relief, though he keeps his voice down, "Thank the Lord, Gentlemen. We thought it might be a certain lady."

Wyatt leans forward, "Where is he hiding?" he whispers.

A smile twitching at his lips, William points to a closet set into the wall near the fireplace. This I must see, and we enter very quietly. Fighting to keep himself from laughing, Wyatt creeps to the closet door, pauses a moment, then flings it wide, proclaiming in a high-pitched voice, "Oh, Mr Cromwell - I have found you at last!"

His words are followed by a hideous clattering, as the contents of the closet are scattered. Then a furious voice: "God damn you, Wyatt!"

Any riposte that Wyatt might have made to such a curse is lost as he falls to his knees, laughing helplessly. As I approach, I realise that Cromwell has pinned himself to the back wall of the closet, though the presumably panicked expression on his face has been replaced by anger. Even so, I too am soon equally helpless, and even William is struggling to suppress amusement - though his efforts are sterling. Wyatt, however, is completely beyond any such control, barely able to breathe in, so hard is his laughter, "Your face!" he squeaks, between gasps, "God, your face!"

"Have no fear, Thomas," I find that I am also barely able to speak, "Lisbet Jerningham escorted her back to her Stepmother not half an hour ago."

Attempting as best he can to reassemble at least some dignity, Cromwell emerges from the closet, but before long, even he cannot help but join our laughter. As we are largely exhausted from our paroxysms, we recover ourselves quite quickly, and he reaches for a small folio that he has left on the table.

"Since you are currently unable to spend time at Grant's Place, Richie," He advises, "I stopped there this morning to issue a challenge to Molly - to find some creature or other that causes people to act in a manner contrary to their nature. I gave her until my return this evening to secure what she could. And she found this." He pulls out some folded papers, and hands them to me.

It is a pamphlet containing a treatise on the 'force that causes priests to curse loudly' that Wyatt and I had found during our search for information about Lamashtu. It seems that Wolsey's cynical claim in the text that he saw nothing abnormal in such behaviour was incorrect. As I read, not the easiest of tasks as the text is thickly printed, I learn that such a force _does_ exist - and, as described in the Index, it is known to afflict priests and cause them to speak in most violent and even offensive terms. It can, however, also cause people to see things wrongly - as with the prawns, or the tapestry of Heracles. Then I see the next paragraph, and whistle, softly.

"What?" Wyatt asks.

"This is rather extraordinary - in some cases, where an individual has particularly strongly held beliefs, this force can _invert_ them."

"So, it turned her from a raving Catholic into a raving Protestant, and caused her hatred of Thomas to turn into ardour?"

I nod.

"Are there any damaging effects?" Cromwell asks, immediately.

I quickly scan through the document as best I can, "None that are mentioned. It seems to be largely harmless - it causes them to act most strangely, but then departs. Whether or not they remember what they did, I am uncertain. The text makes no reference to that. Will Paxton did, though." I finish reading, and close the pamphlet, then pause, "Ah."

"Ah?" Wyatt prompts.

"Wolsey has cross-referenced this with another document. Is it included?"

"How do you know?"

"There's an 'x' here, and a reference to another shelf."

Cromwell checks the folio, and shakes his head, "I suspect she has not become familiar with the cross-referencing system. I shall send a message to her on the morrow to retrieve it. Dickon can bring it here."

"I imagine she shall be most vexed with herself for missing this." I muse, "Might I add something to the letter? If I had been in her place, I suspect that I should also have missed it. It is only thanks to my long hours of searching that I have learned that Wolsey is not consistent with his placing of cross-references."

Cromwell nods, then stands up, briskly, "Well, Gentlemen, if we have nothing else to discuss, then perhaps we should consider our evening patrol. Raveners are not known to dispatch themselves, after all."

Leaving the pamphlet for the morning, we head back out into the corridors to hunt.


	6. The Unexpected Consequences of Guilt

In some ways, I am quite relieved that Twelfth Night has arrived, as tonight the festivities will come to a close and the court shall return to normal - if such a term applies - on the morrow. We have been kept busy by the endless hunts for the raveners that are still emerging on a nightly basis, and seem to be out almost from dusk to dawn. Given the length of the nights, this does nothing for our constitutions, and we all appear weirdly pale from the lack of light that we have seen over the last week and a half. Certainly I have not been seen at any time in daylight hours by anyone. Tomorrow shall be most strange, given the topsy-turvy nature of my waking and sleeping since the holiday began.

At least the Lady Mary is no longer pursuing us. Her bizarre passion for Cromwell faded precipitously six nights past - though it seems odd to me that it lasted as long as it did. Of all the people affected, none but she experienced those strange effects for more than a few hours. Perhaps the intensity of her feelings were such that the strange spirit, or whatever it was, could not depart from her - or chose not to. While we did all we could to avoid her, and Queen Jane, thanks be to God, took care to place some restraint upon her step-daughter's roamings in search of her apparent beloved, it was an additional disruption which we could well have done without. Rumours were starting to circulate, independently of Chapuys's assessment of the situation. Fortunately, it departed leaving no ill effects - and she seems not to remember her strange behaviour; though, I suspect, this is quite possibly her decision rather than true forgetfulness. The rumours that she has managed to overhear have led to some outbursts of a truly Royal temper that could only have come from her father - and the subject has been dropped. Rather as, I think, one would drop a very hot platter.

Should I have the time, I think I shall return to Grant's Place and review my research. While this bizarre force appears relatively benign, it causes embarrassment for those affected, and disruption where they are of sufficient import for their activities to be noticed. If it can be dispersed, then I intend to ensure that it is. Not that I have any means of finding it. Hopefully I can identify a means to do that, too. Much remains to be seen from the contents of the missing document that Wolsey cross referenced. We might already have had it, but for Molly's departure to Kent with Dickon to spend the new year with his family. She returned today, and - I am convinced - is already searching her way through the Library for it.

Wyatt and I are waiting in a passageway, as Cromwell has gone on ahead over the rooftops again, and, as he never climbs while shod, this time Wyatt is holding his boots. Since I am the only one out of the two of us with a silvered weapon, I need to have my hands free.

Suddenly, I feel Wyatt tense beside me, and I look to see that he is staring out in the court beyond most intently, "What is it?" My voice is a low hiss.

"I cannot tell - there is something there…but I cannot see it well. It is as though looking through a warped pane of glass…" his voice trails off, "Or perhaps that strange haze that rises in heat…"

There is a slight scuffling sound above our heads, and we look up to see Cromwell descending with the aid of the drainpipe. Pausing only briefly to hand Cromwell his boots, Wyatt returns his gaze to the court.

"Is it still there?" I venture quietly. I can see nothing but the light of the lanterns that are close to being extinguished as the hour is late.

Wyatt nods. Cromwell, still holding his boots, squints over his shoulder, "What can you see?"

"Something strange…" Wyatt murmurs, "It is still there - as though it is watching us…"

This unsettles me, "Are you sure?"

He nods again, then sighs, "It has faded." He turns to us, "I am not sure of your views, but, to me I cannot help but wonder if it might have been that which has bought such mirth and disruption to the court?"

This time I nod, for we are aware of Wyatt's ability to see things that would otherwise be hidden - that same skill that enabled him to witness Zaebos's departure from his victims. Even now, I feel myself flinch slightly at that dreaded name, and shake myself slightly at my foolishness. It is a remarkable ability - one that seems to stem from his artistic mind - or at least that is Cromwell's assessment. As a poet of talent, Wyatt seems to see things differently.

By now, Cromwell has donned his boots, and leads us to another court where two raveners are engaged in a vicious, spitting fight. As this is more akin to their natural behaviour, he looks quite relieved. If I have learned nothing else, I know that raveners will not share territory, and their bizarre willingness to co-exist has been bothersome. My only concern now is that, if they are behaving normally, then they are almost certain to give much more of a fight than they have been of late - and I am really not capable of fighting one, silver poniard or not.

Cromwell's expression is quite keen as he withdraws his swords from the scabbards that are at his back - as he has been climbing - and we approach together. If fortune is on our side, the approach of three combatants might drive one of the raveners away for us to track down at our leisure. To add to the impression of threat, I fetch out my poniard, while Wyatt draws his own sword, which would do him little good if he needed to use it; but then, the two raveners would not know that.

Fortune, however, is looking elsewhere. The pair of demons turn and face us, their horrible faces rendered even more vile by their snarling mouths - and the teeth those mouths reveal. Then they spring at us - both of them together. For the first time, I see Cromwell is taken by surprise, and one of them strikes him hard on his right temple, which fells him with a clatter of dropped swords. He is not unconscious - but he is stunned; so now it is in the hands of Wyatt and I to battle them. I hope to God that Wyatt cannot see the look of fear that must already be on my face - I am growing hot all over, my heartbeat racing and my breathing quickening as I tense to fight, or flee: I am still not sure which might occur.

Brandishing his sword, Wyatt lets out an astonishingly warlike roar - which, as we are in one of the parts of the palace occupied only by day, will not be noticed. So wild is my blood by now that I do likewise, and - quite in defiance of both my normal disposition and my sense of better judgement - rush madly at the creature that is closest to me. It reacts with appalling speed, leaping up at me; but if I was ever in control of my actions, I am no longer, and I barrel into it at such a pace that the pair of us tumble in a flailing mass of arms and legs half across the court.

I have landed atop the ravener, but all that I can see now is Zaebos - powerless under me, and the need to avenge myself upon him is such that I no longer know where I am, or what I am doing. Grasping the hilt of the poniard in both hands, I raise it up above my head - point down - and drive it with all my strength into the body beneath me. It is, however, not enough, and I wrench the blade back out of the squirming torso, stabbing down again, and again. The demon is dissolving to dust under me, but I see only that hideous face - and it is only as the poniard strikes bare cobbles and bounces out of my hands that I finally regain my senses.

Reaching for the poniard with a hand that is suddenly shaking, I turn to see that Cromwell is back on his knees again, while Wyatt has taken it upon himself to snatch up one of the fallen swords and is even now dispatching the other ravener. Neither of them seem to have noticed me, thank Christ, and I slowly clamber to my feet, trembling all over as the fury departs and leaves me almost as wrung out as I was after my attempts to drink that damned cordial.

Between us, we help Cromwell to rise. His eyes are still a little unfocused, but otherwise there seems to be no harm done. Wyatt, I note with some relief, seems almost as shaken as I, as neither of us were expecting, or prepared, to undertake such a battle. That we did so, and acquitted ourselves surprisingly well, appears not to be lost on Cromwell, who retrieves the swords, and leads us back to his apartments.

"Are you well?" Wyatt asks him, as we enter, "That was a vicious blow."

"I suspect I shall wake with an aching head on the morrow," Cromwell admits, "But other than that, I do not anticipate any ill effects. That was well done - both of you. I did not expect them to attack together as they did - it is so contrary to their nature." He sits down, and submits to William's attempts to apply a cold compress to the impressive lump that has emerged where he was struck.

"Perhaps we may have the document we were awaiting by the morning." I suggest, as a distraction from my sense of discomfort at my unexpected loss of control in the fight, "Now that we know that Tom can see this strange phenomenon, perhaps this shall make it possible for us to disperse it."

"You forget," Cromwell smiles, tiredly, "We meet with the Council on the morrow - to continue our attempts to persuade them to let us be about our work. The document shall have to wait until that is done."

"Ah, the joy of your vocations." Wyatt smiles, "Well, if we must wait until dinner to see the further information, then we must wait. I cannot imagine what more it can add to what we know - but it might offer some more amusing insights."

I can hardly wait.

* * *

Such is my exhaustion that I sleep far better than I have for some time. My savage attack upon the ravener, however, remains as shocking an event this morning as it did when I was on my knees in the court, my hands stinging from the sharp vibrations of the poniard as it was bashed out of them by the impact with the ground. I had no idea that I was capable of such violence - and certainly not in such an uncontrolled fashion. I could, if I allowed myself, follow the thought to its base, but I know where that shall lead, and I need my wits about me this morning. The Council shall not take kindly to my presentation of bills if I am distracted - and the questions they are likely to pile upon me shall require all of my concentration to answer.

John has provided me with hot chops and bread to break my fast, and I sup at the small ale gratefully. Despite everything, I am hungry, and I feel fortified for the challenge ahead as I depart to collect my papers from the office chambers.

Cromwell is already present when I arrive, in conference with Wriothesley. As I arrive, he beckons me over to join them, and I notice that the lump on the side of his head has, thanks to William's compresses, subsided. There is, however, a growing bruise that I have no doubt the Councillors will explain away as having come from a blow delivered by the King. It is not unknown for him to attend council meetings with contusions somewhere visible upon him - but very few of them are caused by Henry. I had once assumed the same as all others - but now I know differently.

Between the three of us, we consider every possible objection that might be raised to the proposals the bills contain. They are yet to be put to Parliament, which will not sit for another three weeks, but the Council expects to see them first - in order to object to, and if possible remove, anything that they consider likely to impinge upon their personal privileges. As my noble rank is as low as it is possible to be, I have no personal privileges to be impinged upon, any more than Cromwell has, so I find such wrangling tedious and petty - though I know myself well enough to admit that, were I as high-born, I should be much the same. I am much less blind to my faults than I used to be - but even then I wasn't entirely ignorant of them.

The reforms that we are proposing are significant, and only a fool would suggest that they are not needed - though it has taken the efforts of a base-born commoner to bring them about. In some ways, I feel that he is all but attempting to drag a carrack through a cobbled street in his attempts to persuade the nobility that surround him that England cannot continue to be governed as it was by the Plantagenets. Safely ensconced in their palaces and manors, the people that surround Cromwell have no idea what it is to be born and to live without such privileges - and are loath to take any action that might reduce their incomes or powers.

I suspect it was purely his training as a Silver Sword that prompted Richard Crookback to begin to institute such reforms in his own reign - and Henry's father was sensible enough to build upon them. Henry, however, seems interested only in absolute deference to his Kingly might, and so the nobles flex their muscles. It was such attachment to privilege that has led to the conflicts that brought Lamashtu to our shores - so not only does Cromwell fight her plans with his weapons - he does so with politics, too. Were it not for that, I suspect he would have given up, retired from court and returned to lawyering.

Our plans laid, we leave Wriothesley to his work - though it is unlikely to be long before he begins to join us at such affairs in his role as King's Secretary. With nothing more to add, we walk in companionable silence along the long corridor that leads to the Privy Council chamber. Halfway along, Cromwell loses his balance, and staggers slightly - bumping awkwardly into the wall.

"Are you all right?" I am at his side at once, concerned that it might be his injury.

He remains silent for a moment, as though orientating himself, before straightening up again, "I am - I think. The room seemed to spin for a moment, but all is settled now." He takes a deep breath, and we continue. I hope that this is not a bad sign - the one thing that we do not need is for the Lord Chancellor to faint, or fall, during the meeting to come.

The air of hostility in the room is almost palpable. The King has opted not to attend, and is probably enjoying himself somewhere else - so the Councillors feel that they, too, should be permitted to be elsewhere. The holiday is, however, over, and work must restart, or how is the nation to be governed? It's only now, that I am able to see them through something akin to Cromwell's eyes, that I realise just how petty and contemptible they can be when the mood takes them. Dear God, was I like that before my life took this turn?

As the discussions will mostly cover legal points, Cromwell asks me to make the presentations. This is, to me, bread-and-butter work, and I begin, paraphrasing as best I can to avoid losing what little attention I am likely to have from my audience while ensuring that I do not alter the intent of the clauses I am describing.

I am barely two clauses in when it begins: Beauchamp seems quite intent on doing all he can to question my competence, and the value of the work we are doing. Fortunately, as we had prepared for this - admittedly not from this one individual - he fails to fluster me, and eventually Suffolk suggests that he sit down and be quiet; for the sooner I am finished with my presentation, the sooner everyone can get back to the leisure pursuits that we so rudely interrupted. From his tone, it is clear that his sympathies lie with us - for we shall not have leisure to return to - and Beauchamp concedes with a face like thunder.

No sooner is he in his seat than a violent flurry of robes, followed by the hideous clatter of a heavy wooden chair toppling backwards and hitting the floor makes everyone around the table start violently. To my surprise, Cromwell is on his feet, but he is not looking at anyone about him. His eyes are fixed on the door, and his expression is one of such utter horror, that I turn at once in fear that we are under demonic attack - and he has no weapons to defend us. There is, however, nothing there.

Everyone remains still for a few minutes - held by that look on his face, for none of us - not even I - have ever seen such an expression before. Fortunately, he seems to come to his senses before I feel I should intervene, and he looks around as though he is emerging from sleep and knows not where he is. Flustered, he turns to see that his chair has been knocked to its back, but one of the guards is already righting it, and he is soon seated again, muttering apologies for his behaviour. Around him, the various Lords glare at him with varying degrees of scorn and derision for his rudeness, so I quickly resume in an attempt to cover for the unexpected episode - though I cannot help but notice that he has turned a deathly white, and he is paying me no more attention than the nobles who are so obviously bored.

I am relieved to finish my presentation - and Suffolk hastily dismisses everyone. He looks across at us, concerned, but I know that this is something that Cromwell would never discuss with the Duke - and may not even discuss with me, even though I am his Second. Before he leaves, Suffolk dismisses the guards as well, leaving us to discuss the matter alone. He is clearly more perceptive than I thought. Either that or he thinks that…

I shut off that thought at once, embarrassed, before turning to Cromwell, "What happened - what did you see?"

"You did not see him. Did you?" it is more a statement than a hope that I did see that invisible thing that so shocked him.

"Him?"

Cromwell's voice falters briefly, "Smeaton. He was in the doorway, looking at me…" his eyes are fearful again. As I still see Zaebos at inopportune times, I can only assume that his feelings of remorse have struck at him - though why it has taken so long, I cannot guess.

"Come - let us return to the office. I am sure Wriothesley's fussing over the work we have generated for him shall be entertaining enough to restore your equilibrium." I suggest, and he nods, attempting - but failing - to smile.

Our return to work is uneventful enough, and - as expected - Wriothesley complains theatrically over the additional work that the bills shall create for him. Such is his melodrama that I know he does it only to meet expectations, and instead relishes the challenge of organisation that this work places upon him. Shaking my head in mild amusement, I return to my desk.

After two hours of examination of the clauses in the bills to ensure that there are no copying errors, everyone in the chambers is startled violently by a dreadful cry of horror. Peter drops a pile of papers, while one of the older clerks presses his quill down too hard on a paper and blots his work. My own neat hand is suddenly disturbed as a letter seems to leap above its neighbours, thanks to my start of shock. I know the voice, however, and I am immediately out of my seat to see that Wriothesley is beside Cromwell, who has scrambled away from his desk, and is backed to the wall, staring at his hands in such anguish that I wonder what on earth has happened.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I ask, uncertain whether I am asking Wriothesley or Cromwell. The Secretary shakes his head in confusion.

"Blood…" Cromwell moans, weakly, "My God…my hands…blood…"

Then I realise - he thinks his hands are covered in blood. As he has seen, or caused, so much death over the last ten years or more, perhaps that is no surprise; but his expression, and his pallor, are scaring the clerks, who have never seen him in such a condition. Then he looks up, and another groan escapes his mouth, "No…God, no…"

I look behind me, and, sure enough, there is nothing there. He must be seeing Smeaton again. I must think quickly to cover for this - or they might think he is crazed. Perhaps he is…

"Forgive me Mr Wriothesley, he tripped yesterday evening while we were walking together discussing this morning's bills. He struck his head and was stunned. I think it may be that he requires more rest to recover."

Wriothesley nods, nervously. No one likes to be too close to someone who appears to have gone mad, and he is happy to back away as I attempt to regain Cromwell's attention, "My Lord - come with me. I think your head is more injured than we thought. I shall return you to your chambers and summon the physicians."

He doesn't move - his attention wholly captured by his vision. This time, I shake him, "My Lord - listen to me." This isn't going to work. Instead, I grab his shoulders firmly and shout: " _Thomas!_ "

No one has ever heard me call him by his Christian name before, and my departure from protocol startles Wriothesley. It does, however, have the desired effect, as his attention is wrested from whatever he can see, and is now upon me. I don't give him any opportunity to speak - whether it is likely or not that he shall, "We need to leave. You have a head injury. Come with me." I am unused to taking the lead in my dealings with Cromwell, and so is everyone around me. Fortunately, he snaps out of it again, and looks shaken, "Of course, Mr Rich - forgive me." He is, to my relief, not so addled that he refers to me as 'Richie'. If nothing else, _that_ would certainly set the clerks talking.

William is in the midst of some accounts when I arrive at Cromwell's apartments and, fortunately, the chambermaids have finished their work. He needs no explanations, and quickly helps me guide his master to a chair beside the fire, where the Chancellor sits, staring obsessively into the flames, and says nothing. I imagine William is assuming that Cromwell has fallen into one of his attacks of melancholia again, but I pause only to ask him to take care of his master, as I am going to fetch Tom Wyatt.

I just hope it doesn't take me too long.

* * *

I do not know Tom Wyatt as well as I should - and, unlike Cromwell, I have no idea where he spends the bulk of his days. I stop at his apartments, as his manservant might know where he is, and, if he returns while I am elsewhere, he can be dispatched to Cromwell's quarters. Then, I start my search. There are all manner of chambers and halls where he might be - gaming, circulating with other courtiers; there is no way to know as his days have no structure. Were he to seek me out, he would know immediately from the time of the day that I would be in the offices. His routine is impossible to follow, and there are some places that Wyatt's manservant has mentioned the location of which I am not even certain that I know.

This uncertainty, added to my feverish need to find Wyatt urgently, does nothing to aid my composure, and my swift walk becomes a hasty trot, and then a rather frantic run. While I am no longer winded as quickly as I once was, the fact that I am running serves only to draw attention to me, and I force myself to stop. In my position, the sight of me running gives the impression that something is wrong - and, while it is, it does not involve the King; and I am suggesting with my pace that it does. With, perhaps, some irony, however, it does serve to aid me, as the rumours of my hurrying about have reached Wyatt, and he comes in search of me - leading me to round a corner and crash into him.

"My goodness, Mr Rich!" He says, cheerfully, "Are your rooms on fire? What disaster has set you to running?" then he sees my expression, "What's happened?"

"Thomas," I say, shortly, "in his apartments - come on. He needs us."

Wyatt's eyes widen and he is about to follow me, until I realise that I do not know the enormous palace well enough - and I am lost. Without hesitation, he takes the lead, and in five minutes we are back at Cromwell's door. Wyatt moves to open it, but instead crashes into the wood - as the door is locked. Immediately, he knocks, "William? Is all well within?"

There is no answer. Looking about to ensure we are not overlooked, Wyatt immediately retrieves his picks from a scrip and the door is soon unlocked. I hope to God that it is not bolted. What on earth has happened to William? God help us - please don't say that I have left him with a madman who has harmed him…

Wyatt opens the door, and then dodges straight back with a sharp yelp as something smashes into it on the other side, before he opens it again and rushes into the room, his hands held out before him to show that he is unarmed. Nervously, I follow, and shut the door, before my foot strikes something on the ground, and I retrieve one of Cromwell's knives.

William is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear someone battering on the door of the closet that Cromwell had hidden in on Christmastide when he thought that Mary was attempting to find him. And then I stop dead.

I have never seen him like this - not in all the time that we have fought together, short though that time is. He is dishevelled, his simarre thrown off, his eyes wild, and his magnificent swords are held ready to strike. Cromwell is terrified - not in the manner of a man hunted by an amorous girl, but in the manner of one who truly fears he is destined for an eternity denied God's grace. The swords are shaking in his hands, and he seems on the verge of fainting. He is not, however, looking at us - but instead something behind us. I know, even without having to turn, that there is no-one there.

"I did not mean to harm you…" he pleads, faintly, "God forgive me, I did not…I had no choice…"

It must be Smeaton again - he is seeing the poor musician who suffered so horribly on the rack in order to hand us the evidence we needed to bring down a Queen. But his eyes are moving, left to right, and I realise it must be worse than that - he must be seeing them all: Brereton, Weston, Norris and Rochford, too. Does he see Anne as well?

I set the knife down - not wishing to appear a threat - and approach him carefully, "Thomas - look at me. They are not here, I swear to you they are not. Set down your swords. You are seeing ghosts that mean you harm."

He turns, and finally sees me, "Richard…"

"That's right - set down the swords. We can find a way to help you escape this."

He lowers the blades, and sets them down, but his eyes do not leave my face and I begin to wonder what he is thinking.

"I have a way to escape this…" he says, eventually, his expression darkening. My God, is he going to take his own life?

"No Thomas - that isn't the way." I hear Wyatt saying - thinking the same as I.

"This is your fault, Rich." Cromwell says suddenly, his voice bitter, angry, "You and your weasel words. _You_ brought me to this!"

I have no time to react as he surges forward, his eyes suddenly filled with implacable hatred. In an instant his hands are about my throat, and squeezing hard, crushing downwards so that I cannot breathe. There is murder in those eyes. Dear God, no - he wants me dead - my own Silver Sword is going to kill me…

I can hear horrible choking noises, and I realise, vaguely that I am the source. Somewhere to my left, Wyatt is shouting, and then he is trying to pull Cromwell away from me. Just as lights begin to flash at the edges of my vision, he stops, turns and grabs a heavy book from a nearby table, and strikes Cromwell across the head with it as hard as he can.

The last thing I remember as I feel myself fall is that Cromwell is falling, too. Then nothing.


	7. The Library is Silent

When I regain my senses, I am on my knees and slumped forward, coughing violently as I try to force myself to breathe again. My throat feels hideously crushed, and breathing is painful - I am not sure that I could speak if I tried.

I look about, and see Cromwell stretched out across the floor, unconscious. I remember now…Wyatt struck him over the head with a heavy book and seems to have knocked him out. He was trying to kill me…dear God…not again…I can feel myself becoming giddy again as the realisation that I have escaped death only by the intervention of another - for the second time - sinks into my memory. What use am I to anyone if I can't defend myself?

There are voices now, capturing my wandering attention: Wyatt seems to have found William - but he was in that closet, wasn't he? At least Cromwell didn't try to kill him. Just me.

"What happened, William?" Wyatt's question is quite loud, and I realise it is as much for my benefit as for Cromwell's manservant. Slowly, I turn to listen to William's reply.

"When Mr Rich brought him here," William explains, "Mr Cromwell was in a state of confusion - but he seemed to calm as I sat him in a chair by the fire. I was just mulling him some cider to drink when he turned, and seemed to see something that I could not. He grasped my arm tightly and warned me to hide - for we were not alone, and he would not be responsible for any harm upon me. I dropped the cup, and he forced me into the closet. I have no knowledge of what followed - only that he seemed to be shouting at people who did not reply: though he seemed to think that they did."

Then Wyatt is beside me, "Can you stand, Richard?" still badly shaken, I nod, and he helps me to my feet before guiding me to the chair in which William had seated Cromwell before I left him. Now that I am there, I see the fallen cup that William mentioned, and the remnants of the puddle of cider on the stones of the hearth.

"What happened?" He asks, then.

"I have no idea," I admit, "He stumbled and fell against the wall on the way to the Council meeting this morning - and, halfway through, leaped to his feet in fear. He told me that he had seen Mark Smeaton. Then, once back in the offices, all seemed well - until he cried out suddenly, and said there was blood on his hands. I think he could _see_ it - though we could not. And then I think Smeaton returned to him." My voice sounds terrible, rough and croaking with an odd whistle now and again. I hope my throat has not been permanently damaged - I had no idea until today just how strong Cromwell truly is.

"What do we do?" Wyatt says, looking at Cromwell's supine form.

Rising from my chair, I examine him. As I do so, I am nervous that he might awaken, and try to kill me again - but then I realise that there are small rips in his doublet - as though he has cut at himself. Reaching down, I feel dampness on my fingertips, and when I examine them, I see blood.

"I think we should remove him to his bedchamber, and, to ensure he harms no one, or himself, we should bind him to his bed. Is there blood on the knife he threw?"

Wyatt picks it up, and nods, "My God - has he used it on himself?"

"I think so. It is best if we hide the weapons, too. Once we have removed him, William - could you see to that?" I decide to stop talking - as it is painful.

Between the three of us, we carry him into the bedchamber, and remove his doublet and shoes. Sure enough, there are stains of blood here and there on his shirt, but none of us wish to see any more than we already have, and do not remove that. Instead, we set him down on the bed, and fetch down the decorative ropes that swag the curtains. These are relatively soft, so at least they should not be too uncomfortable if he wakes and tries to free himself. When we are done, he lies silent; spreadeagled on the bed with his head resting on a pillow. Now we must take turns to sit with him, and hope that, when - _if_ \- he wakes, he shall do so in his right mind. God alone knows what we shall do if he does not.

No sooner are we done than a knock at the door sends William through to answer it. When he returns, he has a packet which contains an apologetic missive from Molly, and a smaller pamphlet than the one she had previously retrieved. I take it, and head back through into the main chamber, as the bedchamber is now too dark thanks to the drawn curtains.

William quickly lights some candles with a spill from the fire, and I sit down with the pamphlet to read, "Oh dear God, no…"

"What?" Wyatt asks, at my dismayed groan, "What is it?"

Speaking is still too uncomfortable, so instead I hand him the Pamphlet, and sit back in the chair with a sense of hopeless defeat as he reads.

It seems that we were fooled into a false sense of safety by the previous document; as it mentioned only that which could cause amusement, and gulled us into thinking it could be set aside for another day. Without that cross reference, how were we to know that we were not dealing with something benign, but instead something deadly?

"God have mercy…" Wyatt breathes, his voice low, "How could the original document have missed this?" he turns it over, and realises that the author is different, and from a different country. Clearly the writer of the first pamphlet had seen only the amusing incidents, and not the dreadful ones. Such as this.

William looks very nervous, so Wyatt reads aloud, " _None know what this strangeness is, or what form it takes. Others speak of innocent foolery, people seeing that which is not there to the amusement of all about, or those of the strongest convictions becoming as ardent to the opposite view as they had been to the original. But an incident in Hamburg, in 1473, was documented by a German priest who witnessed it. A knight of great repute, known for his victories in battle, turned upon all in his household and slaughtered them from the oldest to the youngest, not even the dogs were spared. One servant escaped, by hiding in an alcove behind an arras - and told of a hideous dream that seemed to come upon him: that all who had died upon his sword had come to exact their vengeance upon him. In his anguish, he destroyed all he loved to save them. But there was nothing from which to save them, for the servant saw only the knight. Then he fell into a deep sleep - and none could wake him. When finally he emerged from his stupor, he had become mad - and saw only those who wished him harm. For the rest of his days, he was kept in a tower room, chained to a wall, until his keepers could stand no more of his ravings, and cut his throat in the night_."

I look across at William, "I think we should be most grateful that his need to protect you overrode his desire to save you by killing you." I stop speaking again. It still hurts. Maybe I should try whispering.

"But he tried to kill you - and said you were to blame for placing him in that state." Wyatt reminds me.

"We questioned and condemned the five together." I tell him, finding that whispering does reduce the pain, "In some ways, I am as much to blame as he. Yet they seem only to haunt him."

"There are two more examples in this paper," Wyatt continues, sadly, "One from 1505 and one from 1520. Both end in the same circumstance."

"Is there no way to reverse this?" William asks, looking at me hopefully.

"The paper says nothing on that score." Wyatt supplies, as William is too far away to hear me whispering.

"As I have no idea what to look for," I say, trying to raise my voice to a point were both can hear me without too much pain in my throat, "I cannot set this task for Molly. I must go to Grant's Place myself. You should keep him looked after until I return."

"You cannot go tonight, Richard," Wyatt says firmly, "Night has fallen - only a fool travels through Cheapside after dark."

"Then I shall go at first light tomorrow."

* * *

By morning, my throat has recovered somewhat, though I note that I shall bruise up quite spectacularly over the next few days, and opt to wear one of my more high-collared doublets to conceal the damage. John has sent word to the stables to saddle up Adrian, and I am soon on my way through an early new-year snowfall towards Grant's Place. I dread to think how Molly will react to this - if she feels anything as I do, then I suspect she shall blame herself as much as I blame myself. How could I not have warned her about the wayward manner in which Wolsey and his only trusted Clerk added such references? It would not have occurred to her to check the back of the pamphlet, and it was only through chance that I came across it myself.

Goodwife Dawson is waiting for me at the door with a cup of mulled ale as I join her, and I reach for it gratefully, as I am cold, and my cloak and bonnet are dusted with snow, "How is he, Sir?" She asks at once. William must have sent word to her, then.

"Still unconscious, Mrs Dawson," I advise her, "Where is Molly? I need to speak to her - I suspect she might blame herself for this and I need her to know that her belief is false."

Goodwife Dawson sends me through to an upstairs bedchamber, where Molly is sat upon the bed, huddled in Dickon's arms. As I expected, her eyes are red with weeping, and her expression is stricken.

"Please tell her it's not her fault, Mr Rich," Dickon begs, his own expression miserable as he shares her pain, "She couldn't know, could she?"

I sit down on the side of the bed, "Indeed she could not. It is no one's fault. Not hers, not mine, not Mr Cromwell's. It did not occur to me to warn you, Molly, that Cardinal Wolsey and his Clerk were not consistent in their placing of cross-references. It should have been at the front of the pamphlet where it could be seen - but instead was hidden on the back cover. For that, I am truly sorry, for it has caused you to blame yourself for an incident that is not your doing."

"I'm so sorry, Mr Rich," she whispers, tearfully, "I should have read all the way through. I should have…"

"Why?" I ask, " Did Mr Cromwell ask you to read the entire document from cover to cover? I would have done no differently from you. Had I located the document, I should have read the first pages and returned to the Palace in triumph - only to discover that I, too, had missed that reference." I reach out and take her free hand in both of mine, offering her all the sincerity that I can, "Please, Molly - do not let this crush your belief in yourself. You did nothing wrong. If you had not found this original document, we would not have known that there was another to be found. In that, at least we have hope, as there may be another yet to find that can help us resolve this problem."

I have no wish for Molly to feel she has failed Cromwell - she does not deserve to be so crushed, for she is not his Second. I am - and it now rests upon me to make up for my own failure, and find some means to reverse this strange possession before we lose him completely. I decide not to allow her to help me, for if I fail, I do not want her to be a part of that failure. She has worked too hard, and learned too well, to warrant that, "I want you to rest now, Molly. Promise me that you will do so - I shall see what I can find. No matter what happens, be proud, for you have overcome so much, and you have such potential. I would not wish to see you lose that - for then I would truly have failed you, and that I refuse to do."

She nods, tearfully, and Dickon draws her into his arms protectively, "Thank you, Mr Rich."

"Look after her Dickon." I say, and leave them alone.

Once I am in the library, I note from the Index that Molly has followed my example and added marginalia of her own. I suppose I should be irked that she has been scribbling in my index - but then, as I have effectively been scribbling in Wolsey's index, I feel I have no right to complain. Besides, her observations are so astute, and her writing so neat, that to do so at all would be monumentally churlish.

I opt to start from scratch, and begin to search the index for a possible reference. As expected, the references lead to the pamphlet, and I note, to my disgust, that the cross reference had not been added - I can see Molly has corrected that herself. No wonder she didn't find the other document. I took great care to examine the second document for an additional reference - but found nothing. If there is another document, its link has not been determined. I must therefore start again.

I continue for an hour or more, my frustration growing with each failed attempt. I have no idea how much time I have to prevent this awful possession from destroying my Silver Sword, and each minute that passes without a discovery is another closer to his loss. So desperate do I become, that I even attempt Wyatt's randomisation trick - closing my eyes, opening the book at random and pointing at pages. This achieves nothing either, and I slam the book shut before pounding it with both my fists, "Damn you, Wolsey! Why didn't you cross reference that document! What am I to do now?" I slump back in the chair, and fight with myself not to weep. I have failed. Cromwell is lost, and it is my fault. I have failed him… _again_. If there is a sorry band of Seconds who have failed their Silver Swords so utterly, I am about to join it.

I am roused from my encroaching self pity by the sound of toppling books. A stack on a nearby dresser, which seems to consist of uncatalogued items that I shall have to find the time to work through, has fallen to the floor. For a while I stare at it through misted vision, but I cannot leave them on the floor - I cannot abide mess - and get down on my knees to gather them up.

As I do so, my attention is caught by a small coffer that sits in a recessed shelf close to the ground. It has not been moved for some time, dusty and girded with old spider webs, not to mention a few dead specimens. Brushing the mess aside, I retrieve the little object and examine it. At the moment, any distraction will suffice. Within lies a folded sheet of paper - no, vellum judging by its fineness. With great care, as the skin is old and I am afraid that it might break at the fold, I open it to see what is inside.

The writing is beautiful - a magnificent Chancery script in black with red embellishments. Even in my sorrow, I cannot help but be fascinated by the sheer handiwork that went into what is, effectively, barely more than a memorandum. It refers to a sacred object - which it calls _Regia Mariale Rosarium_. My Latin is much better than it used to be, as I have been working on it, but even before I had begun my revisionary studies, I would have known that this meant 'Royal Rosary'. The note states that it was discovered in Spain during the last days of the Saracen invasion - and that, in the hands of a Queen, it offers powerful protective and, equally important, _curative_ properties. There is, however, no description of it and no suggestion as to where it might be. What colour is it? How large is it? What is the crucifix made of? Is it ornate? What use is it if I could even find it in time? Would it even work anyway? I have never considered any relic to have any supernatural properties - and certainly the relics we have found courtesy of our our commissioners has shown me no evidence to change that view. "What is the _point_ of this?" I cry, suddenly. Cromwell is dying - or on the verge of losing his mind - and all I have is a note on vellum that looks pretty.

And yet…I know I need to retain this information. Why I should, however, remains a mystery. Perhaps I shall need it to offer protection to the next Silver Sword that arrives - protection from my useless, damned incompetence. But then, if I am responsible for the death of a Silver Sword, I can only suppose that I would never be allowed near another one again. Trembling with misery, and a multitude of unshed tears, I finish gathering the books together, and return upstairs. I doubt I shall return here - except to show a new Second the contents, before I am banished from it forever.

I ask Goodwife Dawson to tell Molly I have found something that I shall try - even though I am quite convinced that I have not - and depart with what appears to be commendable swiftness through the snow that has accumulated since my arrival. Part of me wishes I could just carry on riding Adrian out past Whitehall, and beyond, to hide from my awful failure - but the rest of me, furious with myself for this ridiculous self-pity, insists that I must return to do what I can. Whatever that might be.

Leaving Adrian to the care of a groom, I shuffle through the increasingly deep snow back to the palace. Were I in a better mood, I think I should be quite enchanted by it - I have never lost my childish delight in the accumulation of snow - but now it serves only to offer a linen pall over a corpse, and I want nothing more than to be out of it.

Such is my disinterest in my surroundings, that I do not notice that Beauchamp and his two tiresome retainers are approaching me. I have no doubt that it is a coincidence - not even he would be so vindictive as to wait about in heavy snow on the off chance that I might come by - but he immediately nods to the pair, who quickly grab my arms and bundle me backwards and up against the passage wall. I should, I suppose, be frightened by this; but I feel so little emotion that I find myself unable to care. Instead, I wait for Beauchamp to approach, and to say his piece.

"You really are elusive, aren't you, Mr Rich?" he drawls, as though bored, "I imagine it is easier to hide from me than to have the matter out - but then, you may have been dubbed a knight, but you are no gentleman, are you?"

Does he think I care? I have seen things he couldn't imagine - I have seen great men behave like churl, and churl behave like great men. It is the act that makes the gentleman, not the blood. What does it matter anyway? I am no gentleman - I am nothing less than a crashing failure, and I just wish he'd go away so I can go back to Wyatt and endure the ignominy that I _do_ deserve.

One of his retainers grabs my chin and forces my head up. I do not bother to resist - what point is there? I am a self-pitying idiot and I know it. Where did that thought come from? Distracted by it, I do not hear what he says next. Not that it's likely to be important - he is just being childish over an imagined slight.

When my awareness settles back upon him, Beauchamp is looking at me with a frown. Nothing he has said to me seems to have had any effect at all - I am completely impassive. Neither threatened nor defiant. He looks thoroughly annoyed, and rather damp, as snowmelt from the roofs, which are warmer than the air, keeps dripping on him. As the retainers and I are under the eaves, he is the only one getting wet.

Without another word, he gestures curtly at the two men, who give me one more shove - for good measure - and saunter away, "It's not over, Mr Rich," He calls back, "I am watching you."

As they turn the corner, that sense of nothingness is gone, and I am shaking. Not with fear - but with the intensity of my misery. I know that I have not the experience that Wolsey could command - and I have no doubt that even he could not have been prepared for something such as this - but still I feel that I have failed. What if no Second before me has ever lost their Silver Sword through their own incompetence? God help me, I do not want to be the first…

By the time I reach Cromwell's apartments, I can feel my eyes brimming, and I am grateful that there are no courtiers or servants in the passageway to see my humiliating distress. This is ridiculous - I never used to be like this. But then, I have never overseen another man's death through my own failure. I have faltered, and it is Cromwell who must pay for it.

William admits me to the main chamber, and at first I am quite calm, as he takes my cloak and bonnet to dry them near the fire. Then Wyatt comes out of the bedchamber, and the look of eager hope on his face is such that I cannot maintain my composure any longer. Like an idiot, I stand in the middle of the chamber, and start to blubber stupidly, "I couldn't find anything, Tom," I sob, "God help him - I couldn't find a single damned _thing_."

He immediately comes to me, and rests his hands on my heaving shoulders, "You are not to blame for this, Richard," he says, firmly, "none of us were prepared. Not even _Wolsey_ appears to have appreciated the danger of this thing - if anything, it's his fault for leaving us so blind. Why in God's name did he put the cross reference where we wouldn't find it in time?"

"I can't help him, Tom - I'm his bloody _Second_ and I can't help him!"

"Then we turn to someone who can." Tom reminds me, quietly. I stare at him, dumbly, as he turns back to the bedchamber and indicates that I should follow. I don't want to go in there - how can I look at Cromwell in his helpless state and know that I cannot rescue him from it?

"Richard. I think this is something we both need to do. Don't stand out there - if this works, then you'll feel even worse because you didn't help. Come on."

Scrubbing at my eyes with my sleeves, I force myself to stop being such a complete fool, and join him in the bedchamber. The darkness is thick, for William has only one or two candles burning, and I can see Cromwell has not moved in all the time that I have been away. Not that he could if he wanted to.

Wyatt turns to me, and I sigh, and nod. Together, we go down on our knees, and begin to pray.


	8. An Unexpected Visitor

The room is largely silent, but for the sound of breathing and, I must admit, the faint sounds of tears that I am trying hard to conceal. Even on my knees, attempting to plead for his life, I cannot let go of the awful conviction that it is my failure that has led to Cromwell's condition. I should have _known_. I should have gone to the Library when we discovered Molly had left Grant's Place. If only I had done so…if only…if only…if only…endless repetition of the dreaded words 'if only'. Words that plague all who have made a choice that turned out to be wrong - and all the more painfully if another has paid for the mistake.

There was a time when I would not have cared one jot about the health of the man who lies tied to the bed. A time when I cheerfully despised him for his base-birth, and would have viewed this as nothing more than an opportunity to manoeuvre myself into contention to replace him. How quickly it has all changed. God above, I was such a contemptible creature - but then, if I were still that man, I would not be feeling this crushing pain: I have found two dear friends, when before I had few, or even none - and now I have killed one of them through my incompetence.

It seems, however, that one trait I cannot expunge is self-pity - even now, when I am supposed to be offering supplications in hopes that God might spare my Silver Sword, I am thinking of myself. Perhaps I am not so far away from that contemptible creature as I thought I was. Angry with myself for being so selfish, I force the thoughts out of my head and concentrate on prayer, as Wyatt is clearly doing. _Spare him, Holy Father, I beg you - for he is a better man than I. We cannot spare his loss…even if I could stand to lose the first true friend I have ever had, there is no other who can fight this fight…please, please, please…_

I have no idea how long we remain on our knees, though it is probably not as long as it seems. The first sound we hear in all that time other than our own breathing is a light knock upon the door. We turn to see William, who has such a look of stunned incredulity upon his face that I cannot help but wonder if an angel has arrived with a curative.

"My Lord, Mr Wyatt - I…" his voice chokes slightly and he has to clear his throat, "I have the honour to announce Her Majesty the Queen…" he steps to the side and bows deeply, while Wyatt and I stare at each other in confusion. Is he playing a trick upon us? Why would the Queen come here?

But he is not. We have not seen her since the Christmastide masses, and have no idea what has possessed her to come into a Courtier's bedchamber at this hour, chaperoned or not. Hastily, we scramble to our feet and bow as deeply as William has.

The woman beside her looks at me with a rather strange expression, and I realise that I am looking at Lady Jane Rochford - George Boleyn's widow. As I was partly responsible for his attainder and death, I am not surprised at the hostility she shows me.

The Queen sees it too, "There is no need for you to remain, Lady Rochford," She says, gently, "You may wait outside in the main chamber."

"I shall prepare some hippocras, Majesty." William offers, before escorting the Lady out.

The Queen says nothing at first, looking beyond us to where Cromwell lies, still bound to the bed and absolutely silent. Her expression is difficult to judge - if we do not know why she is here, I suspect she is not entirely certain herself.

"He does not look so ruthless now." She says, quietly. There is no condemnation in her words, just a bemused observation.

"Forgive me, your Majesty," Wyatt says, a little nervously, as he is not supposed to speak unless spoken to, "but why have you come?"

She does not take offence at his presumption, but turns to him, "I was at prayer in my apartments, Mr Wyatt," she says, "Whereupon I heard a voice from Heaven asking me to seek out a soul in need of Royal succour." From her tone, it seems as though she is explaining it as much to herself as to him, "I do not ignore instructions from upon High, and so I took Lady Rochford with me and set out to seek this needy soul - and was urged to stop at this door." She pauses, briefly, "Perhaps it is a lesson for me. The Holy Father knows I have no liking for the Lord Chancellor - and that is most unChristian of me."

"He's not such a bad man, your Majesty," Wyatt replies, "All men have their virtues as much as their faults."

"I cannot ignore his corrupt activities, Mr Wyatt," the Queen advises him, rather more coldly, "I have seen him accepting bribes from petitioners. Nor," she adds, "can I concur with his view that the great abbeys must be destroyed."

"He accepts bribes because it is expected of him, Majesty," Wyatt explains, "he does not keep the money - which surprised me as much as it must surprise you. His wealth comes from his earnings, and from legitimate business dealings. The bribes are donated to the poor - as he despises the process as much as you do. He conforms to expectations - and the King knows of it, and also seems to expect it, for it is but a small proportion of that which the King shall receive."

"And what of his activity against the great Houses?" she asks, clearly determined to retain at least one edifice upon which to pin her dislike.

"We carry out the King's command, your Majesty," I finally trust myself to be able to speak, "for there are maggots amidst the roses - and corruption has spread like a stain across the face of the Church. I wish it were not so - but when rich men can give but a little of their fortunes to secure indulgences for their greedy souls, while those who have little give all that they have to receive nothing but empty hopes, surely that is as contemptible? We have not moved against the great Abbeys - not until we have established reforms to the State to offer that which people need the most from such houses, and without demanding their last groat for the privilege. We could have acted against them without mercy - and his Majesty's coffers would be overwhelmed by the profit of doing so - but the Lord Chancellor would not have it that way. He desires peace and calm in this Kingdom above all, so he does not intend to take without giving first." I stop, as I know that I am babbling again - I always do when I am nervous.

The Queen is looking at me with an unnerving intensity, measuring up my words and considering the arguments I have made on Cromwell's behalf, "You make him sound like a paragon of virtue." She says, eventually. She is right - I have rather overdone my praise.

"Forgive me, your Majesty - that was not my intention. I am well aware that he can, should the need arise, be single-mindedly ruthless, for his loyalty to the King is absolute - as is mine. I have acted unscrupulously, and contemptibly - to my shame - and so has the Lord Chancellor, equally to his; but we do so for it is the King's desire. The King wills - the King must have. And it is we who must bear the burden of that which we do to get from the first point to the second." I want to tell her of his remorse after Anne died - how I found him in the Chapel Royal in stricken misery…

_Oh, for Christ's sake, Rich. Shut up your mouth!_

I stop dead - that voice: the one that berated me in the cellar when I was stabbed - and it appears to be angry with me again. Should I be surprised? I note that no one else has heard it, for they show no astonishment at it. Instead, I turn back to Cromwell. God, what are we doing, talking like this? He needs us - and we are wittering on about his virtues and faults; but we need to. After all, why should the Queen offer assistance to someone if they are not deserving of it?

* * *

"You are not telling me all. Are you?" the Queen says, after a pause - as it is clear that I am not going to continue to talk.

"I beg your indulgence, your Majesty," Wyatt steps in, smoothly, as I must look as flustered as I feel, "We have told you all that we know that would answer your questions. There are certain aspects of our work that are solely on the King's business - and we are not permitted to talk of them to any but he. I can only ask your forgiveness for our silence upon such matters."

She looks at us both for a few moments, "I understand, Mr Wyatt. Even if I were to find your arguments against my preconceptions over the Lord Chancellor to be unbelievable, I could not deny that he has inspired such loyalty and devotion from you, and from you, Sir Richard," She looks at me, and frowns slightly, as she must see that I have shed tears. As I am too miserable to care what she might think of this, I do not feel embarrassment, "that you would throw yourselves on God's mercy upon his behalf. A man such as I believed him to be could not do so - and thus I concede that I must reconsider my view."

As I have done.

Wyatt nods, "Thank you, your Majesty. If we could have assisted him in any other way, then we would have done so - but we cannot. Thus we have placed our hopes in God - for did He not restore his Majesty to us when we thought him lost after his bad fall at the joust?"

_For Christ's sake, Rich! Stop wasting time with all this blabbering! Time is short - if you do not act now, right this minute, then it shall be too late, and God help me I shall make you suffer for your tardiness!_

Wyatt turns, as I let out a faint gasp at the violence of the words the voice has spoken to me. Who is this? It cannot possibly be an Angel, not if it uses such profanities, "What is it, Richard?" he asks, startled at my expression.

If the voice is to be believed, there is no time for explanations, so instead I drop to my knees in front of the Queen, "Your Majesty - I beg you, whatever you planned to do when you came to us, please, you _must_ do it now. Time is running out, and if we delay any longer, it shall be too late…" and there are tears on my cheeks again. God, what must she think of me?

She does not answer, but instead smiles gently, and rests her hand on my shoulder for a moment. Then she passes me, and gestures to Wyatt to stand aside. As soon as he does so, she approaches the bed. Reaching into a pouch at her waist, she withdraws a rosary, which she carefully sets upon Cromwell's chest, before murmuring a quiet prayer and then, to our astonishment, leaning over him to plant a soft kiss upon his forehead.

As she pulls back, the Queen looks at our open mouthed expressions with mild amusement, "Have you forgotten, Gentlemen?" she asks, "Is not the Royal touch a curative? I have done what I can. Now we must return to our prayers."

Without hesitation, Wyatt snatches a nearby cushion from a bench and sets it upon the ground as Queen Jane comes to kneel between us. Smiling, she shakes her head, and instead kneels directly upon the floorboards as we do.

I clasp my hands together as tightly as I can, and sink all my hopes into this last, desperate resort. _Please God. Let it work. Please let it not be too late. Please forgive my self pity, it has served no one and I am naught but a cowardly fool if I think it can…just save him…please. If it be better that I take his place, then let me do so…_

And this time, I know that I would.

* * *

The candles have long since guttered and died, and we are now in complete darkness. There is no sound but for breathing, though I can hear quiet murmuring from the Queen as she prays.

I am not sure when I begin to hear it first, as I cannot quite distinguish it from our quiet breaths, but it sounds like a soft burring hum. Then I can see a brightness against my closed eyelids, and I open them. I have no idea if my fellow supplicants have heard the sound, or noticed the light, but they cannot miss my startled intake of breath, and they too can see what I am seeing. From the rustling sound of fabric, I note that the Queen has crossed herself.

The entire chamber is now illuminated - but the source of that light is low, and I realise that it is coming from Cromwell; no, not him: from the rosary that has been set upon him. It casts a shaft of brightness upwards and outwards, alive with dancing motes of sparkling lights within itself. I have never, could _never_ have, imagined anything could be so utterly beautiful - and I can almost feel its thrumming power, as the floor seems to throb with it, the vibration coming up from the floor through my knees.

"Jesu, God and all the angels…" Wyatt breathes, as enchanted by the sight as I. I can imagine that there shall be a great outpouring of verse as a result of this. How on earth is it possible - what is happening?

_Regia Mariale Rosarium_

The words rise in my mind as a memory stirs. I had committed to remember this - and I had thought it to be useless as I could not have hoped to find the Royal Rosary - but I did not need to. It has been delivered to us by the hand of a Queen: the very means by which its powers could be brought to bear. Queen Jane had it, she had it all along - and all that was needed was for her to bring it to the one who needed it.

"What's happening?" Wyatt whispers again, as though his words might disperse it and destroy all.

"I found a reference to it in the Library," I keep my voice as low as his - out of reverence if nothing else. There is only one power that could do this, and it is one that I had paid such nominal attention to, I am almost afraid that my lack of reverence might be noticed and commented upon, "it told of a rosary that, in the hands of a Queen, granted curative and protective properties. I had no idea where to look for it - but it seems that I was not meant to."

It appears that I have been berating myself for no good reason. The cure was always to hand, and I was not meant to find it - just to ensure that it came to us in time. In that, I nearly failed, for my determination to seek the cure almost led me to keep it from being delivered. God be thanked I did not leave it too late…

Queen Jane is still praying, her lips moving almost silently. I bow my head again, pleading for it to have come in time - for did not that voice say that it had almost passed? I want this to work. I want it to work so badly that, if my own death were needed to make it happen, I would let it happen - and gladly, too; for Thomas Cromwell is a better man than I.

Then I feel it, a hand taking mine. I turn, to see the Queen looking at me, kindly, and my eyes widen. She has taken Wyatt's hand as well, and we are now kneeling, in a row, hand in hand, praying together. This is the _Queen_ , for God's sake - and she has humbled herself alongside two commoners to pray for a third. Would Anne have been able to do this? Somehow I doubt it. My thoughts are rambling again…I should stop…

We are all startled by a sharp gasp. It is not me, nor is it Wyatt - it has come from the bed. Our heads must move in unison to look up - and we are all quickly on our feet. Has it worked? God, _please_ let it have worked.

Cromwell's eyes are open, and he is staring upwards, his face a mess of emotions - fear, distress, anger, despair and even grief. What has he seen? I cannot begin to imagine; nor do I wish to. He seems to convulse, briefly, before his back arches - and we all see it, that same shimmering haze that Wyatt saw in the court when we were hunting the raveners. It seems to leap from him, rising up into the light, where it is consumed and finally vanishes. Whatever it was, that creeping malevolence, it is no more. It can never harm anyone again - and I can make a note in the Index to that effect…Oh God, I'm starting to cry again.

Slowly, Cromwell looks about. His eyes seem a little unfocused, and his movements are not helped by the fact that he is still bound, which adds to his confusion. Without hesitation, Wyatt and I unfasten his bonds, and he slowly lowers his arms back to his sides. He has said nothing, and I cannot help but wonder if we have been too late after all. Then he blinks, hard, and shakes his head, as though trying to dispel dizziness, before looking up and finally seeing us, "Tom…Richie…" his voice is weak, but his expression upon seeing us is as one of a child who sees the face of a loving parent after the worst of night terrors. It is over. He has woken - and he is safe.

"Welcome back, Thomas," Wyatt grasps one of his hands, in relief. I want to do the same, but I cannot speak. I know that if I do, I shall start blubbering again - and I do not feel I can cope with yet more humiliation at such undignified behaviour.

While he is certainly conscious, and appears to be in his right mind, he still seems somewhat befogged. He reaches to his chest, where the rosary lies, and lifts it from the cambric of his shirt, frowning. I can almost see the thought in his head: _where did this come from?_ Then he turns his head slightly, and he sees the Queen.

Immediately, he tries to rise, and I reach to assist him - but he waves my hand away, "No, Richie - let me."

I step away, as he moves awkwardly and slowly, frowning with the effort. Despite being unconscious for nearly a night and a day, he seems utterly exhausted. Still clutching the rosary, he stands before the Queen, and begins to bow as deferentially as we did when she first arrived. So poor is his balance, however, that he cannot remain upright, and drops to his knees with a rather heavy thud. He remains so for a few moments, and then, the surprise of all - even the Queen, he falls before her, and clutches at the hem of her skirts with his free hand. Wyatt is agog with astonishment, and I suspect that I am much the same.

"Great Queen," his voice is firmer now than it was when he woke, "you are the greatest and truest hope of the Kingdom, and I pledge all that I am, and all that I have, to your service."

Her eyes widen in astonishment at his words, and the three of us share an incredulous glance. What on earth is he _doing_? Perhaps he _has_ gone mad, after all…

He remains at her feet for a few moments, then topples to his side in a dead faint.

"Well." Wyatt says, with a sharp exhalation of breath, "I wasn't expecting _that_."


	9. Horrors Beyond Counting

I sit in a chair beside the fire, nursing a cup of the hippocras William prepared earlier in the night for Lady Rochford. The Queen and her Lady have departed with smiles - at least on Queen Jane's part - and her blessing. Wyatt sits opposite, a cup also in his hand, as we try to make sense of all that has occurred.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks, tentatively. He must know that I am now deeply embarrassed by my extensive displays of emotion. So much for detachment.

I nod, "Forgive me, I was being foolish."

Wyatt shakes his head, "You were not. Your loyalty to him is absolute - and I know that loyalty is not something that has come easily to you. Your reputation about the Court before you became Thomas's Second was hardly stellar."

I am not surprised to hear this. In my turmoil in the bedchamber, I recognised what a deeply unpleasant individual I had been. Even as Cromwell had lain dying at my feet that night in the office chambers, my thoughts had been of supplanting him, "I have never sought friends. Only advancement - by whatever means necessary or possible." I admit.

"I have come across some enchanting names that people use for you. I think 'weasel' was possibly the kindest - though there were much worse after your performance during More's trial."

"That was not my finest moment." I agree, "Even though I was acting upon Thomas's instructions at the time, I viewed it as a challenge - and thought that I might benefit from More's demise. My only concern when I was under questioning by the tribunal was that my perjury would reflect badly upon my standing with the King. The true irony is that, when he watched me thinking over the problem, and how to solve it, Thomas recognised that I could be of value to him as a Second."

He looks at me, more closely, "You've never said - but why _did_ you agree so suddenly to become his Second?"

This time, I do not hesitate to answer. If he finds my words embarrassing, I could hardly humiliate myself any further than I have already done tonight, "I saw through his armour - and saw his crushing loneliness."

"And not your own?" Wyatt asks.

This stops me at once. Mine? My loneliness? I had never considered my lack of friends to be a cause for concern; it is always possible to find companionship over a gaming table, or pots of ale. Even female company can be purchased, either with jewels or with coin - and I have done so enough times in the past. Even the fact that most not only disliked me, but actively hated me, was of no matter - as long as the King found me useful, and would reward me in time. Was that my armour? If so, it has not just hidden my feelings from all around me, but also from myself. For I had not thought myself to be lonely.

"I have witnessed all that you have endured this night, Richard, and your actions were not so much of a man crushed by failure, but by fear that he would lose someone dear to him. I think that you were meant to be Thomas's Second, yes - but in a single moment, his loneliness cried out to yours, and thus the connection formed between you."

"What are you suggesting?" I do not think I like where this conversation is going. Does he think what Brandon is thinking?

"Friendship, Richard," he assures me, calmly, "I have seen men who are amorous toward one another, for there are men at court who seek company of that nature, and I see no such behaviour from you. Your need for friendship cut through your prejudice, and you have begun to tap into the better half of your soul. I am glad - for you were, to be frank, truly contemptible back then, and I could not work at your side if you had not turned from that."

I think it over for a moment, then swallow the last of my hippocras, "So, what happens now?" It is not a real question - more a new topic of discussion. Wyatt accepts this, and muses aloud.

"We must await Thomas's awakening. Whatever happened to him, despite his being unconscious, it left him utterly wrung out. I cannot begin to imagine what that must have been."

"From his expression when he came back to us," I speculate, "it must have been, at the very least, hideous. The moment when he saw us - and knew himself to be safe? In some ways, if he has no wish to tell us, then I should be grateful not to know."

Wyatt shakes his head, "I think it better that he speak. For it was his silence upon the disaster that he wrought upon the Boleyns that might well have led to this. Did not that pamphlet state that the Knight who killed all in his house but one claimed that those who died upon his blade had returned to seek vengeance? And you yourself said that he claimed that he had seen Mark Smeaton."

"More than that," I murmur, "He saw the others, too, I think. Though I know not if he saw Anne."

"It is my belief that this malevolence felt his guilt and sprang upon it. For guilt he feels - you know as much as I. That he hides it is meaningless, it does not hide the fact that it is there. He must confront it, or it shall cripple him again in the future."

"It already has." I admit, "When Zaebos took you, and he knew it, he sank into a melancholia from which only my own near-death roused him. He is much burdened by guilt - and not all of it is upon his own account." I look at him, "You see things that most would not."

"I am a poet, Richard," he says, easily, "I make it my business to explore the human soul."

I am glad to set my cup aside, for I am becoming drowsy. The fire is low now, and I am glad to sit back in the chair. I don't care that I shall have a crick in my neck - it is over, and all is well. I just need to rest…

A hand is shaking my shoulder, "Mr Rich, Mr Cromwell has awoken."

I look about, to see that light is now coming into the chamber - after all that happened last night, I almost thought it would go on forever. I sit up, and try to realign my cricked neck as William wakes Wyatt as he woke me. For a moment, I am almost too afraid to go through to the bedchamber, and I think Wyatt is, too. We exchange a glance, and I square my shoulders to lead the way.

William has replaced the ropes about the curtains now, and early morning sunlight is streaming in. Cromwell is, as promised, awake, and comfortably settled against a heap of pillows. Despite his rest, there is a distinct pallor about him, exacerbated, I suspect, by his unshaven chin. William has set a table nearby upon which sits a pitcher of small ale, three cups and some bread and cheese. I suspect that he has not provided anything more extensive as he does not expect us to eat much of it. If any at all.

There are also two chairs, one on each side of the bed, and we seat ourselves - I to his right, Wyatt to his left. For a while, Cromwell does not look at us, but seems intent upon the patterns of the counterpane that covers him. Then, finally, he looks up, "Gentlemen," he says very quietly, "I think I might now know what Hell looks like."

* * *

"You need not speak of it if you do not wish to, Thomas," I tell him, at once, "We would not expect you to."

He shakes his head, "I must. I was told in no uncertain terms that silence would not aid me, for it was silence that opened me up to all that occurred. God help me, I should prefer to forget it, but I suspect that even should I wish it, I could not." He closes his eyes, and looks pained for a moment.

"There is no judgement in this chamber, Thomas." Wyatt adds, softly, "We are as human as you are, and we know that as we judge, so shall we be judged. Tell all that you can, as you feel you can - there is no shame and no condemnation, for we are not without sin and cannot cast the first stone any more than they who menaced she who was caught in adultery."

I wish that I could put it so poetically - but words are not my gift. I look at Cromwell again, and I realise that he is trembling. He has no wish to relive what happened while he was unconscious, but the consequences of not doing so must be such that he has no alternative. On an impulse, I reach out and set my hand upon his arm, "Let us start where it began," I suggest, "Would I be correct in my suggestion that the moment two days past when you fell against the wall in the corridor was the moment at which this malevolence entered you?"

He nods, "I agree; for a moment I was disoriented, and knew not where I was. I assumed myself to still be suffering the effects of that blow I received to my head - but it seems that I was not. All was well until Suffolk ordered Beauchamp to sit down and cease badgering you over the bill, and then he was there - standing in the doorway…" his voice trails off.

"Smeaton." I supply, quietly.

"Never have I seen such hatred and accusation in a human face - though his head was placed at a grotesque angle, and his limbs were disjointed. He held his left eye in his left hand - up to his face so that he could see me with both eyes at once. He said nothing - but then he did not need to." Cromwell pauses for a moment, and I quickly pour him a cup of ale in case he needs to drink something. "He was not there for long - but I was deeply unsettled, for I still did not know what had happened to me. But then, in the chambers - I looked down, and my hands were drenched in blood - so much so that it seemed to drip from them all over the papers on my desk. And then he was there again."

"I remember - I pretended that you had injured your head in a fall. I think Wriothesley believed me. The Clerks were most disturbed." I add.

"I recall you guiding me back here - and leaving me in William's care to fetch Tom. But then they were in the room with me again, and I became convinced that I must ensure William's protection - for I knew they meant me harm. I ushered him into the closet and bolted it shut. Then I fetched my swords and took off my simarre so that I could fight unencumbered. But they would not fight me. They said not a word - all their accusations seemed to stream from them like a haze of heat, and I knew - without knowing how I knew - that they sought my blood. I thought that, if I gave it to them, they might leave me, and I took up a knife."

So that was how he got the wounds, "And then we returned," Wyatt says, quietly, "but why did you assault Richard?"

He shudders at this, "I saw only accusation, and anger - but it was directed solely at me. I did not understand how it was that they blamed only me when you were in the room too, Richie. It made me angrier than I could possibly believe that you should be spared from this when I was not. God, I tried to kill you…" he stares at me, stricken.

"I am still here, Thomas," I assure him, "All that I have gained from the encounter is some fine bruising on my neck that I shall have to cover with high-necked doublets for a few weeks. Tom stopped you."

He nods, vaguely, "I recall a blow to my head - but it seemed not to hurt. Instead, it swept the room, and you, and they - all away; leaving me in a small chamber with neither windows nor doors. The only light entered through a hole in the ceiling that was blocked by a grille. I was standing beneath it - and the light fell only upon me.

"I called out - but no one came. Not at first - until a figure emerged from the darkness and faced me - Father Frescobaldi."

"Who is he?" I ask. I vaguely recall William using a name like that, when I was lying on the floor with a stab wound in my side, but I do not know who he is.

"A Florentine banker," Cromwell supplies, "You may recall that, when I was but sixteen, I lodged with his family as an apprentice in the banking trade. It was they whose deaths led to my becoming the Raven." He stops, and sighs, "He approached me, and spoke to me with bitter hatred, and cursed me for not saving him, or his family. And as he spoke of them, each of them came before me - his mother, his wife and his five children, one of them no more than a babe in arms. But, as each of them appeared before me, they seemed to split open and dissolve into a tide of blood that began to fill the room in which I stood."

We stare at him, horrified.

"But it did not stop there," He continues, staring fixedly at the pattern on the counterpane, "the priest Boccaccio, whom I killed for sending the revenant upon the Frescobaldis accosted me and joined the flood; and my dearest friend Joachim, who fell to his death before my eyes during the last of our trials at the House, cursed me for my recklessness, which caused him to follow my example and climb to a great height without aid. He also fell into blood - followed by Queen Katherine, who blamed me for my failure to save her babes - and each of them came forth to add to that torrent that rose higher with each corpse. And then…and then Anne was there. And I knew that, above all, I had killed her unjustly. She too was gone, and then I was floundering in the blood - for I could no longer touch the floor of the chamber.

"I thought myself then to be safe, for no others had died - but I was wrong; for then all those who had died at the hands of the demons I dispatched - but had been victims before I had the chance to make each kill - were leaning in through the hole and cursing me for failing to save them: the boy we found in the drain, the man in the corridor; every one of Zaebos's victims and more - even Talib. Each of them fell to blood as well, and it poured in through the hole like a deluge of water - until the flood had risen to the ceiling, and all that was left to me was the hole. It was wide enough to escape - but the grille held me down…and then…I screamed for help. For any who might hear me - for you, Richie, and you Tom. But no one came - and then the blood closed over my head…"

He stops, breathing fast. He had cried out to us - and we had not come to him…God, why is he not in tears? I can see Wyatt's eyes are brimming, and I know mine are - for he had lost even our help in that hideous place. Even at the most awful moment in that cellar when I lay bleeding and faint, someone had spoken to me, and I had not truly been alone.

But I can see from Cromwell's face that it is not over. This, it seems, is not the worst. There is more to come.

* * *

I hand Cromwell the cup of ale, and he sips at it, his hand trembling. He has never been a man who revealed his emotions to any - and to do so now is almost as hard as experiencing the ordeal in the first place. As I have done, Wyatt reaches out, and rests his hand on Cromwell's other arm, "We are listening. No matter what you say, we are your friends, and none shall hear of it outside these walls."

He hands back the cup, and takes a deep, but shaking, breath, "I next recall lying upon a stone floor. All signs of the blood were gone - but I was not alone. I looked up in hopes that it might be you, Richie - but it was not. It was Thomas More."

I cannot repress a shudder, but I am not given the chance to speak, as Cromwell continues, "He looked upon me with the deepest contempt - but, what was worse was his head - for it, as Smeaton's was, was on wrong. His eyes were rimmed with blood, and the severing point of his head visible as a red joint. There was a hole at the midpoint, and it was from this that his voice emerged - a hideous, wheezing rasp.

"He berated me with anger and a malice that he had never shown in life - not for my own actions, but for sending you to do the work in my place, Richie. To him, that was a worse crime, for I had expected another to do what I could not - and disassociate myself from the blame that would follow. He said cruel, vicious things about you, Richie - words that angered me, for I knew that you were no longer that man - and I told him so. But he cared nothing for the mission - even though his own actions to quell the reformation, and his refusal to accept the Oath of Supremacy might have disrupted the peace that I am striving to maintain. In his mind, once he had sent me onwards, he would seek you out and destroy you as you had destroyed him."

Despite myself, I feel a chill down my back. Even though it is not truly More - the fact that he had such a plan for me is frightening.

"He reminded me of the last thing he said to me - in his cell when I visited him for the last time to plead with him to change his mind. He said that, while he died today, I should die tomorrow - and it was coming to pass, for there would be no escape from the place into which I had come. It was neither heaven, nor hell - but should I die while in that place - I would die unshriven, and forever denied entry to God's Kingdom. I should spend all the rest of eternity alone and crying out for any who might hear me - for none would."

I can see Wyatt's grip on Cromwell's left arm tighten in sympathy, and I do the same - we were not there when he needed us - but we are here now.

"Then he began to laugh," Cromwell resumes, his voice still very quiet, "It sounded as though he were choking to death on his own blood. Then he leaped forward and grasped my shoulders. Even though he was dead, and smaller than I, I could not fight him - and he drew me to the edge of a monstrous abyss - there was no sign of the bottom, and I knew that I was to be thrown into Hell.

"I pleaded with him - begged to be allowed to live until Lamashtu was defeated, after which I would return and accept my fate without hesitation, for I knew it to be deserved; but he said only that I should have considered that before I took it upon myself to wade in innocent blood - that which awaited me below. Then he pushed me forth, and I fell into the darkness."

* * *

Wyatt and I share a helpless glance. I had thought it might be bad - but not as bad as this. I can only assume it took place inside his mind - but it must have seemed real to him at the time; he could not escape from it and could not turn to us for help because we had not followed him in.

Cromwell indicates that he needs the cup again, as his throat is dry, and I pass it to him to drink. He hands it back, and resumes, though again his eyes remain fixed upon the patterns on the brocaded counterpane, "I do not recall landing upon anything - but somehow I found myself to be on solid ground again. At first there was no light - nothing at all, and I feared myself to be in a tomb. But gradually the darkness began to fade as a small degree of light filtered in, and I found myself to be in a deep pit, for there was, high above me, an opening and I could see stars in a night sky.

"Five people did not appear to me in the chamber to dissolve into blood - and it was then that I found why; for they were waiting for me in that pit. All of them - Smeaton, Brereton, Weston, Norris and Boleyn - with their heads at grotesque angles and their voices emerging from gaps in their throats as More's had done. They surrounded me, and the hatred in their eyes was such that I could not look at them. Smeaton's limbs were all disjointed and at strange angles - and he was holding up his left eye again - it moved as his right did, as though it were still in its socket.

"Each of them took their turn - for all of them had something to say of my cruelty in bringing them to their destruction. And I deserved each word they spoke - for even Boleyn was innocent of anything other than falling in with evil, and it abandoned him at the last. They cared not that I had no choice - the King wills, the King must have. In their eyes, I should have failed and offered my own head for the axe. Nor did they care of the mission - any more than More had done. Evil acts have no justification - none…" his voice trails off again, and he sighs, painfully. I offer him the cup, but he shakes his head, opting instead to continue, "Not one word that I spoke had any meaning for them - and I knew that they were right, for I had no grounds to end their lives. Their blood was truly upon my hands as though I had wielded the axe myself.

"I could not bear the accusation in their eyes - and I backed away from them as they closed in upon me, back into a small recess behind me in the pit. They did not follow - but I discovered that, in some way, I had become chained to the wall. It was Boleyn who told me then of my fate: for I would not leave this place - ever. Even if I were to return to the living world, I would do so a raving madman - utterly insane." His eyes are widening, his trembling stronger - for this must be the worst of it, "And then…and then they began to enclose me in the pit with a wall. I screamed, God, I screamed for you both - and still you did not come. I knew then that I had no one to help me - that I was utterly alone. Not even God wished to save my lost soul. I wanted to get out - I could not stand the confinement - but if God did not wish to bring me to his light, then what was there left for me?"

For a moment, I think he might break - that the tears brimming in his eyes might escape, but instead he clenches his eyes tightly shut and forces himself to hold it back.

"But what happened, Thomas?" Wyatt asks, quietly, "For you are here with us, and your mind is still intact. Who came for you?"

His eyes are still closed - but then he says one word, and I feel as though I have been stabbed to the core, "Wolsey."

* * *

A part of me wants to get up and leave - for the one name I did not expect to hear, is also the one name I cannot stand to. Once again, that paragon has stepped in and left me looking incompetent, useless and unable to help my Silver Sword. I could not help him - but Wolsey could…

Cromwell continues, his eyes still closed, "At the very last - with but the smallest hole left to fill, at which moment I should have been entombed forever, I could see a growing light, bright and warm. I knew then that all was not lost - but I did not know how to reach out to it. I did not, however, need to - for a hand reached in to me, and a voice I thought I should never hear again prompted me to take it.

"The chains were sufficiently long to enable me to do so, and the moment I did, all vanished away: the chains, the pit, my accusers. And I was standing as though in nothing - for all around me was light. And there was Wolsey, looking at me with relief, for he had come to me in time."

I am glad his eyes are still closed, for the pain I feel is all but crippling. The brimming tears in my eyes begin to fall, and my head droops. I cannot stand to hear this - every inch of my failure and worthlessness is being driven into me like a thick nail into my deepest soul. Wyatt can see me, even if Cromwell cannot - but that means nothing. All that matters now is that I must not let out the sobs that are threatening to escape. Why the hell am I behaving so? This is not about me, not about my damned self pity…

"I fell to my knees before him, and wept, for I was so hurt by all that I had endured. But he knelt with me, and reminded me that the Mission is All - and I am obliged by virtue of what I am to act in a manner that most would not countenance, for darkness cares nothing for those that are swept aside in its wake. The light, however, _does_ care; not only for those who are lost, but for those who must take such steps - for there is a Greater Good.

"He told me that we were in Purgatory - I had assumed such a place to be a foolish Catholic fantasy. His sins have been forgiven, but he must be cleansed of all before he can enter Heaven - so he has been tasked to assist us as we work against darkness. Then he said that, if he could experience forgiveness, in spite of all his sins - which were far worse than mine - then it is inconceivable that I could not."

"He is right, Thomas." Wyatt says, somewhere beyond my fixed view of the counterpane that is now embarrassingly tear-spotted, "You cannot hold yourself entirely responsible for all that goes ill in this world - even though you do."

I do not see how he responds to this, but instead he continues, "I did not believe him - for I thought myself still to be in that nightmare, and this was merely another torment. It was only when he struck me across the face and threw a number of his choicest insults at me that I truly accepted that it was he who had reached me.

"You may recall that we were wondering who it was that had helped us in our times of greatest need?" He adds, and I know what is coming - yet more evidence that I could not do anything without the Cardinal's help, "It was he - for he is indeed charged with offering us all assistance. And must do so until my day is done."

Oh God…I want to run. I want to get out of here and never come back…I feel as though my very soul is being ripped out. Even in death, Wolsey is still more worthy, and a greater help than I…

"In view of this, he warned me that I must accept the gift that I have been given, though I know not what that gift might be, for it will bring him into closer contact with us, and grant us access to his deepest knowledge of the Library."

' _The_ ' library. No longer ' _my_ ' Library, then. I need to rebuild that safe, familiar veneer of loathing, to set it back up and hide behind it - I cannot endure this. I am not meant to be here; it was a mistake - and I am not a decent man at all. Better that I just accept that, and retreat into that same friendless state I once knew. At least then I can never be hurt like this again.

"At the last, he reminded me that it is not his power, but that of a much higher source, that came to my aid - but he embraced me, and told me of his pride - before he faded back into the light. The last I heard from him was that I must pledge myself to the one who saved me - mortal as much as Eternal. And then I found myself returned to this world - secure with those who had given all they could to bring me home. The rest, I think, you know."

The sound of his voice changes, and I realise that he is now looking in my direction as he speaks, "There are no words that can describe the moment that I realised I had returned to consciousness - and that the two friends to whom I am most closely bonded were there beside me, and had been so throughout. If Wolsey could reach me in that otherworldly place, then it was the two of you who anchored me here and brought me back. But for you, he could not have done so."

I want to look up - but I cannot. Nothing takes away the fact that it was Wolsey's hand who reached to him in his darkest hour. My uselessness as a Second wrapped up entirely in that single act - for it was only at his furious prompting that I had advised the Queen to take the final steps needed to save Cromwell from an eternity of horrors beyond counting. Wolsey may be dead - but at the last, it is he who is truly the Raven's Second. Not I.


	10. Recovery

I hear Wyatt's voice, "If only we had known. This was caused by that which made the fish cook berate the prawns, and the gardener argue with the robin. It prompted Mr Jameson to threaten Heracles in the tapestry, and Will Paxton to attempt to behead a unicorn. It even caused the Lady Mary to chase you. We did not find until it was too late that it could exert such power over one who feels great remorse."

"I think I have seen its effects before." Cromwell says, quietly, "Some years ago, when he was first made Chancellor, Thomas More, meeting me in my capacity as King's Secretary, seemed to become almost mad with rage at me when I questioned why he seemed so determined to resort to fire in the face of rising lutheran sentiments. He had two of his servants pin me down on the desk, and set a poker in the fire to heat. They slit my doublet and forced up my shirt to expose my back. I thought that I might be branded - and expected to be - but he did not carry out the act. I always wondered what had driven him to behave so; for though he was bigoted and rigid over what he considered to be heresy; his act was the absolute opposite of his general nature: he never once advocated violence against another human being in so cold-blooded a fashion."

"Hot blooded, more like." Wyatt grunts, but Cromwell does not laugh.

Then, at last, it happens, "I thought myself lost, Tom." The pitch of his voice is rising, as the tears start to come, "I cried out to you both to help me - but you did not answer. There was no one, and I was utterly alone. God help me, I was so afraid…" and he breaks. I feel his arm pull away from my hand - which has gone loose anyway, and his legs draw up as he pulls his knees to his chest. It is only then that I raise my head - for he has buried his face in his hands, and sobs as violently as he had in Hampton Court after we had barely escaped Lamashtu's priory.

He is in pain - and he needs the comfort of his friends; but I cannot move, or speak. All I know is that, in his darkest hour, it was Wolsey who came to him. Wolsey who proved himself to be a true Second while I blubbered like a fool and came within an inch of failing him completely. If I was of so little use to him in his most desperate need, then he hardly needs me now. I am surplus to requirements.

Instead, it is Wyatt who speaks - and surprises me with his words, "I, too, am greatly troubled by nightmares, Thomas - for I also carry a burden of guilt. Did I not act with childish indiscretion towards Queen Anne? Ever have I thought that, had I not done so, then my foolish scribblings, and my hopeless pining, might have left people less willing to believe that any would look upon her as an adulteress. She haunts my dreams - I find myself in the cell in which I was kept, and I can hear her: she screams for me, pleads for my help for a demon is with her. The door is open, and I search endless passages for the door behind which she is trapped. But I never find her - all I can hear is screaming, as she suffers torments that I cannot begin to imagine. My foolishness destroyed her, and all but broke my heart."

Cromwell slowly raises his head to look at Wyatt, whose face is now creased with pain, "I miss her, Thomas - miss her more than anyone could guess. Each day is agony for she is no longer here, and I cannot see her face. And I must smile and play the fool, all the time knowing that the one who demanded her destruction entertains another woman in her stead - while those who carried out his desire are forced to bear the burden of it as he does not." And then he lets out a painful cry, "I cannot remember what she looks like any more…she is gone, and I cannot see her…ever again."

Wordlessly, Cromwell reaches out and gathers Wyatt as a father gathers his son, until the poet's head is resting upon his shoulder as he sobs out his grief and pain. I had no idea - did Cromwell? Should I have known? Do I even care any more? I'm not sure that I know, or even that I want to know. Instead, I redirect my attention to the counterpane. The tear-spots have dried now, and I do not intend to add more to them. I shall not allow myself to feel the pain that Wyatt is showing. Not ever again. Perhaps I should just get up, make some excuse, and go. There is no place in this enterprise for me now.

* * *

I stand up, and turn; but Cromwell speaks, "Richard." It is not an order, not a query - but it has the power to stop me in my tracks, "Tell me why you are angry."

How does he know? I have not shown it - and, anyway, I am not angry. Not at all, I am…what am I? I cannot think…

"I am not angry." I snap back.

"If you are not angry, what then?" he retorts, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing.

"I am not angry!" I shout, "I am…I am…" and then I cannot stop, "I am hurt! I am…God, I feel as though my soul is in pieces! I gave everything to this! I even came close to giving up my life - but no matter what I do, no matter what I suffer, Wolsey is always the one who aids us! It's Wolsey! Even when you were in that hell-place, it was Wolsey who came to you, and I couldn't!"

Cromwell says nothing, but watches me, gravely.

"God help me, even when I thought I was brave enough, I wasn't! I fled from Will Paxton because he thrust his halberd at me, and I saw Zaebos! I screamed like a bloody woman and ran away! Zaebos chases me through my dreams almost every night, and I wonder sometimes if I shall ever be free of him! And still, no matter what I do, it's all thanks to Wolsey, not me! The only reason I killed that ravener was because I thought it was Zaebos and I was avenging myself upon him - I stabbed him over and over again, even when the ravener went to dust, because all I could see was Zaebos, and what he did to me!" I am babbling again, but still there is more that I cannot keep inside, and I just keep on going, "I can't even use a sword properly! I dare not - for if I do, I might find a blade in me again, and then that fire in my veins - I could not face that again - I could not! I am too afraid to, for I am a coward! What Second does not protect his Silver Sword - but I have not! I have nearly killed you, not once but twice! It is better that Wolsey is still with us, for he is the Second I cannot be - he has some skill at it, some competence! Some…" I cannot manage another word - the pain inside me is such now that I can barely breathe. I thought I had made such progress as a Second - that I was finally becoming useful, but I am not, and it is always Wolsey that saves us from my failures - Wolsey, Wolsey, Wolsey…

I stand there, like an idiot, blubbering hopelessly, "I cannot do this…" I choke, "I cannot…"

"Richard." His tone is no different, but he is looking at me, and he holds out his right arm - as his left is still about Wyatt's shoulders.

I shake my head. I do not deserve his forgiveness. I have failed him - over and over again…but I cannot re-erect that wall of indifference that made me what I once was - I thought that I could; but it has gone, and I have nothing left. Nothing…

"Richie."

I feel such a failure, so stupid…I had reassured Molly that the disaster we faced was not her fault - and I kept her from helping me in order to ensure that she did not share in my own failings. And I did…I should have stayed…if we had begun our prayers sooner…if I had not waited for her to return to Grant's Place to carry out the search for that second document…

"Am I going to have to get up?" Cromwell asks. From the look on his face, I realise that he will do so - and he is not ready, not yet. Even from this distance, I can see he is still pale as a ghost.

"You do not have to tell me, Richie," he says, quietly, "I can see it in your face. Did you know that Wolsey had some very choice, and uncomplimentary things to say about you? For he did - and I was most vexed with him for it. He trained for ten years or more to become my Second - and was long prepared before I arrived in England; before I even entered the House. And yet he finds fault with you for not being his equal after less than a year? No one could hope to reach such heights of knowledge in so short a time - but still you have risen to the challenge with commendable determination and you did, did you not, uncover the secrets of Blue Fire and Red Fire? Alone and without the assistance of our late Cardinal?"

I glare at him, tearful and mutinous. I don't want to hear this…

"He did not make the mistakes you have made with me, because he made them before he was assigned a Silver Sword and thus no harm was done. He made mistakes far graver than yours - and was spared your guilt for the simple reason that there was no one to suffer the consequences. He cannot understand what it is to find your way as a Second when you have been obliged to start from the beginning with no knowledge even of what we are or what we do - for he did not have to do so. Yet _you_ have done so. As you said to me yourself, Wolsey is dead. _You_ are my Second now."

"I do not deserve the title." I mutter, miserably.

"Self-pity is most unbecoming, Mr Rich, and certainly in a Second. No Second has ever caused the death of their Silver Sword - and neither have you. For God's sake, Richie - we are all fumbling in the dark - I as much as you. I relied far too much upon Wolsey's experience and knowledge, and almost paid for it with _both_ of our lives when I took us into the Priory without a thought of whether or not we were prepared. Your belief in yourself and your abilities as a Second has been shattered - I can see that: shattered utterly. But I refuse to believe that I have chosen ill, for I know that I have not. If nothing else, Wolsey's disdain of you is proof enough - for if he did not consider you worthy of the title, he would not look upon you with such criticism. He would all but ignore your presence. He most certainly would not have spoken the words of the grace through you when you cried out for help in the tiltyard. He would have looked to another to do that service, for Tom was also there. He chose _you_."

Finally, I move. I do not leave - for I cannot. Not when I can see the sincerity in his face; hear it in his voice. Wolsey is dead - I _did_ say that, but it seems that I did not believe it. We might need him - but he is not Cromwell's Second any more: I am - a task I chose freely, and willingly. I should remember that.

Instead, I seat myself alongside him, as Wyatt has done, and his arm is about my shoulders, "When first I met you, Richie, I saw you as a contemptible, unscrupulous politician with no interest other than his own advancement. You have shown me that you are more than that - far more. There is more good in you than you know, and it has emerged apace over this year. You seem hardly recognisable as that same man - and I value your friendship more than you can believe - but there is one thing more that I must say," and he leans close to my ear, " _I trust you."_

No one has ever said that to me before - for I have never warranted any man's trust. Wyatt might have said the kindest insult anyone had for me was 'weasel', but he is not the only one who has heard worse. I know that none in the Court would ever have placed their trust in me, and until now, I would not have cared. Perhaps that is it - most of all. Until now, I have never truly been able to believe that Cromwell trusted me, even when he has said so - but he does, and now he has truly declared it. And I believe him.

"I promise you," I say, with a firmer voice than I expected after all that ghastly blubbering, "I shall never fail you again."

Cromwell laughs, "Don't make promises you cannot keep, Richie. I may trust you, but that does not mean that you shall never make another mistake. If you do not, how could you ever learn?"

Not, I suspect, as much as I have learned this morning.

* * *

A vague sound of knocking comes through to the bedchamber, and both Wyatt and I return to our chairs. If he is as wrung out as I feel, I am sure we would make a hideous sight to anyone who came in to see us.

William knocks on the door, and looks in, "Forgive me, Mr Cromwell; one of the clerks is without - Mr Wriothesley has sent him to enquire if you and Mr Rich are well - for he has noted your absences."

As he looks so unwell, Cromwell is more than happy for the unfortunate messenger to be shown in to see him, and I note that it is Daniel. As they are all used to seeing the Lord Chancellor only in the office chambers, he is clearly most uncomfortable to be in his bedchamber, and he stares nervously at his master's pallid face.

"Please pass my apologies to Mr Wriothesley, Daniel," Cromwell advises, his voice suddenly rather weak-sounding, "I have not been well these two days past, and I shall need today to recover myself. I shall see you all on the morrow."

Daniel nods, and turns to me. As I have sore, red eyes, and something of a headache, I opt for overindulgence with wine, "Forgive me, Daniel - I am recovering from the effects of drink. I am sure Mr Wriothesley can survive for one day without my presence." As I used to offer such dreadful excuses for absence, Daniel does not show surprise, but instead mild resignation as he bows and withdraws.

"Now," Cromwell says, altogether more businesslike, "If you could remove the breakfast items, I think we should make some use of them in the main chamber. Send William through, would you? I have no wish to remain abed, and certainly not in yesterday's clothes."

As we have not lain abed in our garments, they are in somewhat better condition, so we repair to the main chamber to await him. I have little appetite, and neither does Wyatt - so we leave the bread and cheese untouched in case Cromwell wants it.

"Do you feel better now?" Wyatt asks again, looking at me with sincerity rather than mischief. I am not entirely sure what I shouted in the bedchamber, as it came out in such a rush; but I know I said much more than I would have wished to. Perhaps I needed to; so I nod, "I think so." I look up at him, "You?"

He nods. Much was said this morning, and all of us seem to have been far more battered by all that has passed since we first came together as a group to fight the darkness that we knew nothing of until that night in the offices. I feel, in some ways, as though the old me - the one who loathed Cromwell and inspired such dislike amongst my peers - was expunged in that outburst, and I am grateful. Now that I know what it is to have true friends, I have no wish to be on my own again, "We shall win against her, Tom." I say, suddenly, "If it is the only good thing we ever do upon this earth - we shall defeat her. In honour of Katherine, and Anne - both of whom suffered the consequences of her cruelties. Once her Majesty is with child, then we shall do all we can to protect her as we could not protect them."

He nods, his eyes bright with tears again, and I smile at him. We shall not forget - even if history does not know why their lives were destroyed; we do, and we can seek justice for them. God - how noble I sound to myself. Perhaps I should have something to eat then, before I noble myself into a stupor.

When Cromwell emerges, he is in neither his 'hunting' garb nor his more ceremonial robes, and he has left his chain of office behind. He moves slowly, as he is clearly still drained from his experience, and seats himself beside the fire, "So you two are not hungry, either." He observes, smiling.

The wind changed overnight to the south west, and brought warmth with it that has thawed the snow that fell yesterday, and has lifted wisps of fog all about the palace in its place. As the snow has gone, and there is no frost, Cromwell asks William for a cloak. As I have left mine here, and Wyatt was wearing his when he arrived, we do not need to return to our quarters to collect them - though I have no idea what destination Cromwell has in mind.

We walk slowly, as Cromwell lacks the strength to maintain his usual swift march, and I am surprised to find that we have come down to the tiltyard. While the snow has gone, the ground is waterlogged and boggy, but there is one part that is hard-packed with gravel alongside the weapons sheds, and it is to this that he leads us. I realise then, to my dismay, that we are to engage in more sword practice. At least, with the weather being what it is, there shall be none to see us.

As he is still rather weak, Cromwell does not select a wooden weapon for himself, but instead perches on one of the large weapons chests while Wyatt does the honours. My usual feeling is of resignation, and of a mild sense of discomfort, at sparring with the weapons - even wooden ones - for I still remember that awful sense of cold steel in my side - ripping through me and slicing open my veins as it did so. Now, however, the memory is there - but I have acknowledged its presence and - oddly - it seems to no longer have the power to chill me. Instead, I face Wyatt without that doubt, and from his stance, he can see that I have.

My moves are, admittedly, tentative at first, for I have not sparred for some days - either for lack of time, or lack of good weather - but as I warm up, I find that I move more fluidly, and with more assurance, as my fear of the consequences of being outsmarted has receded. We soon abandon our cloaks, and Wyatt's movements become more complex, testing my defences, and demanding that I move faster to dodge and parry. Occasionally he gets through, and the strikes smart somewhat, but I have lost the fear of them, and instead I am intent on practising the moves that will guard against them.

After half an hour, we stop, and Wyatt looks pleased. We turn to Cromwell, who is clearly sharing that pleasure, "Well guarded, Richie. Now, your turn to attack. Remember all I have shown you - and do not spare him."

The last time I attacked something with a blade, I recall I went rather berserk, so I am again tentative at the outset. But such is my determination to prove myself, that it overcomes my fear that I might lose control and instead I keep it, and Wyatt finds that his blocks and parries are becoming harder to maintain, as my speed increases. I would be a fool to believe that I am going to achieve the heights of a master swordsman in the few hours we have spent at the tiltyard; but I know this time, as I fall back from the final bout, thoroughly blown, that I am now fighting at the best of my ability - such as it is - not at something close to it.

Our return to the Palace is not witnessed, fortunately, as we are supposed to be either hung-over, or ill. Instead, we head to our own separate apartments - in Wyatt's case, and mine, to wash and change - before reconvening in Cromwell's apartments for a well-earned supper.

As none of us have eaten all day, I wonder if I am the only one who is somewhat light-headed as I arrive at Cromwell's door. Certainly, the cook has provided an excellent repast that will serve to restore us all, and we are soon seated, and I note that Wyatt attacks his plateful with at least as much enthusiasm as I do, though Cromwell himself eats far less, as he is clearly still too tired - if the shadows under his eyes are anything to go by.

"Do you think that malevolence was sent against us?" he asks, after we have moved onto a selection of comfits and sweet wine.

"I would place all my money upon Lamashtu." Wyatt offers through a mouthful of sugary marchpane, "If the Queen conceives, she'd want us out of the way so that she can interfere. She knows we're prepared for her now."

"Except for the fact that the Queen knows nothing of our true activities." I remind him, "She might have come here, and Thomas might have pledged us to her service…"

"I did _what_?" Cromwell asks, shocked. Clearly he does not remember.

"You fell flat on your face and told her that she was the truest hope of the Kingdom." Wyatt supplies, cheerfully, "And that you would give all that you were, and all that you had, in her service. You did, of course, immediately faint, so perhaps your head was not on straight."

"It most certainly was _not_." He looks appalled: the Order is meant to be hidden from all but the Silver Sword and their Second. While he did not state openly what he was, or what he would do, he has still said far more than he should have done.

"Perhaps her Majesty has forgotten about it." Wyatt grins, happily, reaching to break off another morsel of almond paste.

"I most certainly hope so." Cromwell complains, crossly, "The last thing I need is to have yet another person involved in this business. It is supposed to be a secret."

"An open secret." Wyatt adds, and is obliged to dodge another flung napkin.

Our conversation moves on to other things, until we are surprised to hear a knock upon the door. I half expect Cromwell to tense up - the last time this happened he found himself facing an amorous Lady Mary - but instead, William opens the door and steps aside, startled, as one of the Queen's pageboys enters the room.

"My Lords, Mr Wyatt - Her Majesty wishes to see you in her Privy Chamber. If you could follow me."

We share a nervous glance. It seems Queen Jane has not forgotten Cromwell's pledge, then.

Brushing ourselves down, we troop out. Wyatt turns to me, conspiratorially, "Skewered - by royal appointment."

I could not have put it better myself.


	11. The Queen's Gift

The pace of our journey is slow, as, despite his night's rest, and even something to eat, Cromwell is still worryingly lacking in strength. By the time we reach the Queen's Privy chamber, he looks almost as though he might faint.

"What is it, Thomas?" I ask, worried, "Are you ill?"

He shakes his head, "I don't know. I have not felt much strength at all since I awoke - but I do not think that I am ill; not in the sense of sickness."

I can only hope that the Queen shall permit him to sit in her presence.

I have never entered these chambers. My attendance upon Queen Anne to arrest her was in the apartments at Placentia, not here. They are, as is to be expected, richly appointed, with fine carpets upon the floors, and bright tapestries on some walls, while portraits hang upon others. There are no ladies present, but for Lady Rochford, who eyes us with barely concealed hostility.

Queen Jane is seated in a fine chair, though she has no canopy of estate as she is not yet crowned. We stand before her in a row, and bow together as she smiles at us in greeting. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Cromwell is trembling somewhat, and wonder if I should risk asking the Queen if he might be permitted to sit in her presence.

"Welcome, Gentlemen," she says, her voice as kind as it was when she came to us. Then she frowns slightly and looks across to one of her pages, "Jonathan - please fetch a chair for the Lord Chancellor."

"Majesty," Cromwell looks up at her, "There is no need."

"I think there is, my Lord." She smiles, "I should rather you be seated than topple to the carpet and require us all to talk while sitting upon the floor."

He cannot disguise his relief as he accepts the proffered chair, but still he sits only when the Queen does so, and indicates that he may. As he does so, Lady Rochford rises to leave.

"No, Lady Rochford," the Queen says, gently, "I must ask you to remain. Of all my ladies, you are the most loyal and trustworthy. If secrets are to be revealed tonight, I should not wish any but you to hear them."

She curtseys, "Yes, Majesty."

I cannot help but wonder why Jane trusts Rochford's widow, until I remember her behaviour when we questioned her over her husband's liaisons with the late Lady Anne. She had shown such remarkable loyalty to a man who had treated her dreadfully - and all she had given us was the admittance that she had overheard their making disparaging remarks over the King's abilities in matters carnal. She would have been left with nothing after his attainder - but her Majesty has welcomed her into her household, and granted favour upon her. Perhaps that loyalty now belongs to the Queen.

"My Lord Chancellor," Jane begins, in a more regal tone, "Last night, you pledged all that you are, and all that you have, to my service. Thus I accept your pledge."

His eyes widen, and I feel something akin to his obvious dismay, "Forgive me, your Majesty - I have no memory of that moment, and I fear that I might have been delirious. If I spoke such words - though Mr Rich and Mr Wyatt assure me that I did - I did so without control over my faculties."

"I might have thought so, my Lord," she continues, "had I not seen God's presence in your chambers, both in His power that saved you, and in the devotion of your two companions in their prayers for your safe return from your unconsciousness."

I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment - please God, don't let her reveal just how much I blubbered last night.

"I also know that, unless there were a great evil amongst us, such power would not have been needed. That evil seems to centre around you, my Lord - and I wish to know why. I may lack the education and intelligence of she who preceded me, but I know that all is not well within this court. What is your involvement?"

"Majesty," Wyatt says, "It is the King's business."

"That I do not believe, Mr Wyatt;" she says, with sudden heat, "Do not take me for a fool, I beg of you. If you are to be pledged to my service, then I expect, at the very least, an explanation as to what drew me to your door last night."

At once, Wyatt bows.

"Am I correct in my suspicion that the King's Grace knows nothing of your activities?" the Queen asks.

With little choice, Cromwell nods, "Yes, Majesty." He pauses for a moment, "Majesty, might I trouble you for paper, pen and ink?"

Looking a little bemused, she nods to the page that provided the chair, and he brings paper, and a quill that he has charged with ink. Cromwell scribbles a few words, blows on the page to dry the ink, then folds it, "Take this to my quarters, give it to my Manservant. He shall give you a wrapped bundle. Bring it back to us."

For a moment, I wonder what he is doing - then I realise. His note is asking William to send his swords. He means to tell her all, then.

Taking a deep breath, he looks up at the Queen, "Majesty - what I am about to tell you may seem like a wild fantasy, or perhaps merely a very tall tale. I assure you, however, that it is the truth. As I pledged myself to your service, I pledge to you now that, from this moment, I shall never tell you any untruth - even to shield you from that which you might wish not to hear. I can only hope that you do not come to regret asking me to reveal this secret; for, once told, it cannot be untold."

She nods, "I understand. Tell on."

"As you may know, Majesty, I am not of noble stock, nor am I even of the gentry. As a boy of fifteen years, I fled my home and sought my fortune elsewhere. My journeyings led me, half starved and in all but rags, to the door of a Florentine banker, who took me into his home and apprenticed me to his business…"

While Wyatt and I are fully aware of Cromwell's story, it is interesting to see the Queen's fascination with it; fantastical though it sounds. The suggestion that demons are real does not concern her at all, as she presumed this to be so; but that some few men were blessed with the faculty to sense them, and of those, fewer still were capable of fighting them, is remarkable to her. That she is talking to one of those few is even more so. She does not disbelieve him - of that I am certain - her attention is wrapt, her eyes wide as he tells her of the dangers that face England: of its usefulness to those who would use it to destroy all of mankind, and the one bastion of defence is a lone man with silver weapons.

As he pauses to take a sip of a sweet cordial, the page returns with a thickly wrapped cloth bundle. Taking the bundle, Cromwell carefully removes the covers to reveal the silver chased leather scabbards, and the swords within them.

"These are the weapons of a Silver Sword, Majesty." He says, quietly. He does not withdraw a blade, as he is in the presence of the Queen, but instead lifts one of them, still sheathed, "Show this to the Queen's Grace, Richie."

"Richie?" the Queen asks, smiling, "What is this man to you, my Lord Chancellor?" the smile widens as I redden with embarrassment.

"Richard is my Second, Majesty." Cromwell explains, "All Silver Swords at the Royal Courts are assigned someone to support them - and such people are termed 'Seconds'. He researches for me, and fights with me as I need. It is a task that was placed upon him unexpectedly last year - after my previous Second died. As that previous Second was highly trained, and he knew nothing of my mission when I asked him to work for me, it was a heavy burden for him to carry, and he has done so with aplomb. I am very grateful to have him at my side."

She looks up at me, as I approach her with the sheathed sword for her to view, "I am not sure he believes you, my Lord."

The admission comes almost unbidden, "I am not sure, either, Majesty. I have failed him twice."

Then her hand is on my arm, "Only twice, Mr Rich? Then I fear I have the advantage over you, for I have lost count of the times that I have failed my King." Her eyes are bright with sympathy: we are both tasked with a great mission - and neither of us feel that we have achieved that which we set out to do. Then she smiles, "Show me the sword, Second."

Somehow, that reciprocal admission has helped me, and I think she knows it. I bow deeply, and hand over the sheathed weapon. I do not dare to draw it myself: that could be viewed to be treason.

Taking the scabbard in one hand, and the hilt in the other, Queen Jane draws the sword slowly and carefully. As I was, and Molly, she is also entranced by the glory of the blade, "I know little of swords, Mr Cromwell," she says, almost reverentially, "but I do know that this was forged for a great purpose."

"It looks in such good condition because it is but ten years old, Majesty." Cromwell advises, "the man who bore the sigil of the Raven before I, carried blades that had seen such combat that they were considered to be too old to hand on. Our blades are returned to the House upon our deaths, along with our Sigils, to be handed to a new Silver Sword who completes the final trial of the House. When blades are considered to be too old, or well used, they are broken up, and a new pair forged. I am the first Raven to hold these blades." God, he sounds tired. I wish I knew what was wrong with him - but I'm not sure he knows himself.

Equally carefully, she returns the blade to its scabbard, and hands it back to me, "The malevolence that entered you, Mr Cromwell, is it the same as that which caused the Lady Mary to become so enamoured of you, and of your lutheran faith, over Christmastide?"

"It was, Majesty." He confirms - ignoring her veiled accusation of heresy, "I am grateful that it left her unharmed. I did all that I could to avoid her approaches, for I knew that something was amiss."

She watches him for a moment, "I am glad that I was present to witness its destruction."

"It was thanks to you that it was destroyed, Majesty," I add, "It was your rosary - granted by your royal hand."

"But it was sent against you, was it not, Mr Cromwell?" the Queen asks, firmly.

"We are uncertain of that, Majesty," he replies, "but we think that it is possible. Its effects appeared to be generated by the feelings of the subjects that it encountered. I cannot help but wonder if it encountered those who were affected while it was awaiting me. I have, for many years, carried much guilt over that which I could not change, or that which I could not avoid doing, but was obliged to do."

"She who came before me."

He nods.

"If it was sent against you, then your presence is impeding the plans of an infernal power. What does it want?"

I catch Cromwell's eye, and I cannot stop myself from shaking my head, _don't - don't tell her, for God's sake. She doesn't need to know the danger she's in…_

He gives me an apologetic glance, but then turns to the Queen, "Majesty - it wants your children."

* * *

We are silent for several minutes, before the Queen finally speaks, "It shall have to wait, then. For I am not with child."

"For the sake of the succession, Majesty," Cromwell advises, quietly, "It is essential that your situation change - and when it does so, it shall be under our protection."

"Against what do you intend to protect me?"

Cromwell nods to me, intending for me to explain, "It's a demoness, Majesty - from the ancient realm of people known to us as the Akkadians. Her name is Lamashtu, and she resides in human form in an old Priory in Richmond Park. She came to our shores during the strife between the Empress Matilda and King Stephen - and has remained since, taking advantage of all the wars, rebellions and conflict that has afflicted our country until the King's father took the Crown and settled peace upon the realm. As the Lord Chancellor has explained, England is separated from our neighbours by sea, and would make a most effective fortress from which to conduct war against mankind. Thus we must do all that we can to maintain peace - for that is the greatest disruption to her plans."

The Queen considers this for a moment, "So, you are suggesting that this demoness sees me as a threat?"

"Yes, Majesty - she looks to disrupt the succession to return to the days of chaos and violence that gave her the freedom to move unchecked amongst people, taking and killing as she wished. In times of peace, her activities are too difficult to hide. The King longs for a son to continue his line, and it is this that Lamashtu wishes to prevent. That is why both late Queens Katherine and Anne bore only girls. Their male children were either destroyed in the womb or killed shortly after birth. The destruction of newborns, or even the unborn, is one of her most enjoyed pastimes. I was not the Lord Chancellor's Second at that time, and we did not know of her. Had we known of her, then perhaps we might have been able to save Katherine's children, or Anne's. But we were not so fortunate. We do not intend to fail you in such manner."

I note that her attention is divided, and when I turn, I see that Cromwell has dozed off in the chair. How can he possibly be tired? He slept all of last night, and did nothing strenuous today - yet he has fallen asleep. Wyatt quickly shakes his shoulder, and he wakes, though he still seems drowsy, "Forgive me, have you explained all, Richard?"

I nod, "I did not realise I was so dull, Mr Cromwell."

He smiles, "Indeed you were not, Richard. I cannot seem to stay awake, though I know not why." He then looks up at the Queen, "Forgive me also, your Majesty - I have forgotten that I should return this to you." He reaches into a pocket and holds out the rosary.

Jane shakes her head, "No, my Lord. It is yours now. It was brought by Queen Katherine from Spain - and Bishop Gardiner presented it to me on my wedding night. Even as I accepted it, I knew that it was not meant for me. It was only when I came to you and saw its power last night that I knew to whom it truly belongs."

"I do not use a Rosary, your Majesty." Cromwell admits, quietly.

"I am aware of that, my Lord. Such matters are no longer of relevance between us: your mission is of far greater importance. As is the Rosary. You must wear it - please place it about your neck. I insist."

"Majesty…" he looks very uncomfortable.

"I insist. And I am your Queen." Jane says, far more firmly.

He has that expression again - the one that looks as though he is chewing a wasp; but, as ordered by his Queen, he places the rosary over his head and settles it about his neck, taking great care to hide it under the ruffled collar of his shirt. Such is his discomfiture that he looks almost like a sulking child, and Wyatt cannot help but burst into peals of laughter. As his laugh is highly infectious, and the situation is - from our point of view - amusing, I soon join him, and even the Queen is smiling, while the pageboy is trying to hide his equal mirth. Only Lady Rochford is truly stone-faced, as eventually Cromwell cannot keep back a smile at our amusement.

I bow, and return to stand alongside Cromwell's chair, as I feel sure that the Queen has something to say that she wishes to address to the three of us together. Rising from her chair, though she indicates that Cromwell may remain seated as he attempts to rise as she does, she approaches us, "Gentlemen. From this day forward, you are in my Service, as the Silver Sword Raven has pledged. As your activities reflect upon my personal safety, I charge you with my protection, and expect that you report regularly to me upon your doings. In return, I shall, as far as is in my power, protect your secret from all, and shield you from any censure that might arise from those in the Court who do not understand your mission and its importance to this Realm.

"I give you my personal guarantee as the daughter of a Gentleman, and the wife of a King, that your secret is safe with me. Neither Jonathan nor Lady Rochford shall speak of you to any. I trust them implicitly, and, despite all, I know that Lady Rochford shall protect you with as much determination as I. I also guarantee that I shall never place any order upon you, so that you are not placed in the position of being obliged to refuse me. But you must always work for the protection of _all_ at court. Not just for mine."

Oddly, Cromwell seems a little less tired now, as he stands without difficulty and bows with the formality due to a Queen, "We shall abide by your Royal command with absolute loyalty and fidelity. As we serve this Kingdom, and the King, so also do we serve the Queen."

He does not need to ask us. Wyatt and I bow as low as he. He then rises, and makes to withdraw. As we follow, I wonder what the hell we've just done.

* * *

As soon as we return to Cromwell's apartments, William hastily fetches claret as it is clear that I, at least, need some, "What do we do now?" I ask, fretfully, "The Queen knows, Lady Rochford knows - and even her bloody _pageboy_ knows! How many more people need to be involved with this before it becomes a conspiracy? We could all end up in the Tower!"

"Either that, or the secret will get out. The more people who know, the more likely it is that someone will blab, even if without thinking." Wyatt adds, entirely more calmly than I, "Though I think it is safe to say, Thomas, that you now have the largest number of Seconds in the history of the Order."

"You underestimate the Queen, I think." Cromwell advises, "She removed all from her presence other than those she trusts the most. Lady Rochford clearly has a great capacity for loyalty: we saw that when we interrogated her during our investigation into the Boleyns. It is also clear that the Queen has granted her safety and security where, before, she had none. Tired I may be, but even I saw the depths of loyalty and love that she has for Queen Jane - did you not see how she accepted the Queen's order that she not depart from our presence? She might have considered betraying us, but she would never, even under the greatest pressure, betray the Queen."

"That is a very large amount of trust, Thomas." I warn, still nervous.

"We also have the Queen's protection, Richie," he adds, "while perhaps not as strong as that of the King, it is still a great deal more than we have ever had before. I have had to operate in secrecy for longer than you could imagine - and there are risks in that which have, on occasion, placed me in danger of losing my freedom - and even on one or two occasions, my life. I can think of two incidents where I only escaped the noose thanks to Wolsey; and after the second one, he gave me a black eye for my rashness and threatened to flog me with a horse-whip if I put him in that position again. Thus, while I do not intend to place Queen Jane in such a position, the fact that we have her assistance at our backs is more reassuring than worrying."

"It is also worth bearing in mind that, now that she is aware of Lamashtu, we do not have to explain to her Majesty why we are taking steps to protect her person once she conceives." Wyatt adds, to my embarrassment at failing to think of that myself.

"Though we do not yet know what steps to take." I add, "I think I should make that my priority when I return to the Library. I need to update the index to the effect that we have destroyed that malevolence, as well."

Cromwell smiles, "And, this morning, you were on the verge of walking away from us."

"You've promised my services to the Queen, Thomas. I'm trapped now." I complain, rather theatrically, "I could hardly walk away from this after you have waxed so lyrical about my importance."

He laughs, as does Wyatt.

"You seem less tired now, Thomas." I note, for his voice is stronger, and he is looking less drowsy, "you appear to be recovering."

"It's the rosary." Wyatt says, "It must be - you were all but falling asleep before her Majesty demanded that you wear it."

Cromwell frowns, and fishes the rosary out from under his collar. It is quite long, for a jewelled rosary intended for a Queen, and it hangs easily around his neck, the cross trailing down almost to over his heart, "I have never used a rosary," he admits, "I did not have one as a child, and was not given one during my travels as there was no one to give one to me, or to teach me its use. Even if I had, I would not possess or use one now, for it conflicts with my faith. I consider it to be superstitious nonsense."

" _That_ is not nonsense." I say, "It has protective as well as curative properties, according to the note I found. I should research those, too."

"Perhaps," Wyatt drawls, lazily, "You should make yourself a 'to do' list."

I glare at him, though without rancour, "And maybe find something to help me stop up your overly-clever mouth."

"That can wait, children." Cromwell advises, sagely, "Our first priority is Lamashtu. Get yourself to your library as soon as you may, Richie. We need to be ready, as the Queen could conceive at any time."

I nod. How bizarre to think that, this morning I was all but on the verge of walking away. Now, I am apparently in the personal service of the Queen, and the library is 'mine' once more. All I have to do now is not start blubbering again.


	12. Squabbling with a Ghost

It seems strange to be back at work again after all that has happened. It was but two days, yet it feels as though a lifetime has passed since last I sat at my desk. I have been forced to consider myself, and the man that I was, and my future as a Second - now that it seems that Wolsey has been at our side all along. How can I not feel that I am helpless without his aid? Yet, for some reason, Cromwell is insistent that he has not chosen wrongly in asking me to stand at his side. I can only hope that I do not go on to prove him wrong. That, I could not abide.

"My Lord?" Daniel is at my side, some papers to hand to me, "Are you well? You seem distracted."

Slightly startled, I pull myself out of my reverie and take the papers. I have more than one duty these days, and there is work to be done.

The clock strikes the hour, and I look up to see that Cromwell has not yet arrived, though it is quite possible that he is with the King - or possibly even with the Queen after our pledge to her a night ago. Wriothesley does not appear particularly perturbed, which is more than sufficient assurance that he knows where the Lord Chancellor is at this moment, so I return to my work without too much concern, and I am soon engrossed again.

So engrossed, in fact, that it takes me a moment or two to notice that Cromwell is standing alongside me, and I look up with a start, "What is it?"

"I have just returned from the Presence Chamber - there is a matter I require to discuss with you. Could you step out of the offices, Mr Rich?" his voice is formal, for the sake of the Clerks. I nod, and rise to follow him to that same empty chamber we used when he showed me the Lady Mary's letter.

"I did not wish to discuss this in the offices, Richie - as I suspect you shall not like to hear some of it. It does, however, impinge upon our work, hence my pulling you from your desk."

He still looks tired; the shadows deep under his eyes - and his expression is troubled. I hope that he has not had more nightmares over his possession…

"Now that I wear this rosary," he explains, indicating the spot under his doublet where the crucifix lies, "it seems that it has more than merely curative and protective powers. Wolsey visited me while I slept in the night - as though in a dream, but yet it was not a dream." He sounds as though he is trying to explain this to himself as much as to me, "It seems that, at times when it is possible for me to be visited by dreams, he has the capacity to do so as well - to speak to me."

I cannot stop myself from chewing at the inside of my cheek; again, Wolsey is pushing his way into my place. I know that he is meant to be helping us, but why must it be that he does so at my expense? I lean back against the wall again, despondent.

"Forgive me, Richie," Cromwell sighs, pulling across a chair and sitting down, for he is still recovering his strength, "I know that Wolsey's presence is difficult for you. It was not my expectation that he would be able to speak to me after he died - but, even had I known, I would not have chosen any differently - you have my word."

I shake my head, "No Thomas, it's not your fault that Wolsey's presence feels like a thorn in my side. I am unused to being overseen by the one who created that which I am still learning to understand, and I must become accustomed to it. As you and I have both said, I am the one who stands at your side, and Wolsey is a shade. We each offer skills commensurate to our status. I living, and he dead." Then I go back to gnawing. I think I believe what I have just said.

"Wise words, Mr Rich. Wise words indeed - though I feel that Wolsey is not willing to be so accommodating."

I bite down rather harder than I should, and I taste blood, "What do you mean?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I cannot persuade him that I chose well in asking you to work by my side. He recalls you from during his own lifetime, and remembers the man that you were then."

I realise what he means. Years ago, when I was aiming to enter service, I had attempted to become part of Wolsey's staff, but he had not wished to employ me. It had only been through the auspices of Thomas Audley that I had managed to secure a seat in Parliament, and from there that I had risen to become Solicitor General. He must have seen me rather more deeply than most - but then, he was a highly trained Second by that point, so perhaps he saw only that which was despicable in me. If that was so, then no wonder he despises me - as I have myself only recently recognised what I was, and what I am now. If I had not seen it, then what right do I have to expect Wolsey to have noticed it?

"I think that explains much." I admit, quietly, "I failed to impress him when I sought employment from him."

"You did indeed - most singularly. He appreciated skills in people, but he considered you to be someone he could not trust, even to the limited degree that he offered such a privilege. He was not granted such an opportunity with me, for I came to him as his Silver Sword. My lowly beginnings in his service were nothing more than a ruse to conceal my true purpose."

I cannot conceal a slight smile, "I think that was another reason why I disliked you as much as I did. Wolsey spurned me, but not you - and your career seemed to outstrip mine as a consequence of that difference in our fortunes."

Cromwell nods, "That is in the past, and cannot be revisited. You are not that man now, and I think you shall not be that man ever again. Wolsey is not blind to all that has happened, however, so I am most perplexed that he still considers you to be unfit to be my Second. He had many faults - God knows he did - and he could, on occasion, be deeply vindictive; but he was also highly pragmatic, and saw the importance of the Greater Good in conjunction with the Mission. Thus he must know that you are no longer the man that he rejected from his service - and yet he refuses to see that. I am at a loss to understand why that should be."

It is not a question that I can answer either, but it has no impact upon that which I left upon my desk, and I know that I must return to it if I am to finish it before the middle of the day, as I am planning to adjourn to Grant's Place to advise Molly that all is well, and to add a note that the malevolent force we discovered is now destroyed, "Come Thomas, I am sure he shall explain himself in time if he is able to communicate to you. Perhaps you can ask him?"

He laughs, and rises from the chair, "I think that I shall."

* * *

The afternoon air is chill with the promise of more snow as Adrian plods through the streets of Cheapside. I have had to run the gauntlet of a look from Wriothesley that is probably even colder than the weather, in taking my leave before the day has ended; but, despite his elevation to King's Secretary, he is not my master, and cannot object to my early departure.

As my journeys to Grant's Place are now so frequent, and I still retain some belongings in the room that has been set aside for me, Goodwife Dawson no longer fires broadsides of discontent at me when I arrive unannounced. Given that my presence today is likely to set Molly's mind at rest, she is instead much more pleased to see me than she is irked at my failure to advise her I was coming, and she quite forgets to berate me for leaving her so little notice to prepare a meal of sufficient quantity to accommodate another mouth to feed, or of sufficient quality for a man of my rank.

"Is all well with Mr Cromwell, Mr Rich?" she asks, almost before I have had the chance to dismount and hand Adrian's reins to the groom. She, like Molly, does not refer to me as 'my Lord' or 'Sir Richard', as I think she considers my rank of Second to exceed those more illustrious titles. She has called Cromwell 'Mr' for so long, I suspect that she could not call him anything else even if a thunderbolt were to strike from Heaven and suddenly anoint him King.

Molly is, not surprisingly, awaiting me as I enter the building, and I guide her through to the Chamber that I am still learning to call 'mine'. Equally unsurprisingly, Dickon is not far behind. I guide her to a chair, before seating myself on the other side of the desk, and speak before she can ask, "All is well, Molly: that which I found was what was needed to secure his safety. Mr Cromwell is recovering, and should regain his full strength in a few days."

While it is not _quite_ the truth, in that my search was largely unnecessary and merely delayed things, it is sufficient for her to know that she did not fail in her task and we have not - between us - caused the death of a Silver Sword. I have no wish to see her belief in herself destroyed as mine was; particularly as mine is still somewhat precarious. Cromwell trusts me, but Wolsey does not, "I intend to add a revision to the Index, as the malevolence was destroyed when we forced it from him, and it is no longer a threat; but I wanted to tell you personally that all is well - as it was not something that I could have conveyed in a letter."

"Thank you, Sir." Dickon says, resting his hands on his wife's shoulders protectively, "It's played upon her mind greatly for these two days past."

I nod, understanding, for it has played upon mine with equal vigour. It seems that the life of a Second is one that is burdened by errors and guilt as much by heroism and danger. Perhaps that is why Wolsey dismisses me so easily.

There is a discreet knock upon the door, which Dickon answers - as he and Molly are the only members of the household who are permitted entry to this chamber. After a brief conversation, he turns, "Goody Dawson has prepared a late dinner for us, Mr Rich, as she suspects that you might have work to do, and she does not wish you to commence it upon an empty stomach."

As I did not dine, the invitation is most welcome, and I am sure that all our worries can be dispelled over a meal, "She suspects most rightly, Dickon. Lead on."

One of the men of the household is walking through the garden outside the chamber when I return from the room where we dined, a light snowfall settling about him as he selects some of rosemary and thyme from the straw that surrounds them to be added to the meat being roasted for tonight's supper. I light a candle with a spill from the fireplace, and make my way down to the Library, transferring the candle to the lantern at the writing desk. The quill needs sharpening again, something that Molly is not very good at, as she is not experienced enough. As I seem to have spent half of my life sharpening quills, it is a simple matter to re-shape it to my preference, and I reach for the Index to find the appropriate page.

_So, you are damaging my work again, then._

My hand freezes halfway to the book. That voice…the one that has berated me. It's here now, in the Library with me, and I turn, nervously, "Who's there?"

_You don't even know who I am. How flattering. I am most impressed - your inabilities never cease to amaze me._

Then I remember - who was it that helped us when we were in need? Who shouted at me to get out of the cellar when I was bleeding to death? Who demanded that I stop talking and ask the Queen to help Cromwell?

"Wolsey." I murmur; more to myself than anything.

_That would be 'your Eminence', you cur. Are your manners as poor as your intellect?_

I have no idea what is happening, and try to ignore the insult, reaching to open the book. I get it half open, before it slams shut again with startling violence, and I have to snatch my hand away to avoid bruising my fingers.

_Ignore me at your peril, Rich. I see that you have not improved in temperament since I sent you from my door. Rudeness appears to be in your blood._

"Why are you talking to me now?" I demand, "Is this something to do with the rosary?"

_Not entirely. If you were not such an incompetent gudgeon, I might be able to apprise you of the means by which I lower myself to communicate with you. But you are, and so I do not. Had I lived, then I am certain that my Silver Sword would not be weakened, nor obliged to rely upon one so unworthy of trust or faith. Nor would he need the protection of a relic._

And there it is: unworthy of trust or faith. I have never been trusted - no man would have been fool enough to do so. Not before I found Cromwell dying on the floor of the offices - for I am, and have always been, untrustworthy.

"I am not that man any more, Eminence." Though I do not sound convinced by my own statement, "My association with a Silver Sword has brought out the better half of my nature, and quelled that which you found so despicable in me."

_I consider that not to be so - for you would abandon him in a moment to save your own skin, would you not? You are a notable coward, a known promise-breaker, an endless liar and of not one good quality. I would not have had you in my household, not one that would be the place of a Silver Sword!_ His voice is rising, spitting bile at me. Why is he telling me this? Does he think I do not know it for myself? _His advancement would have stirred your foulest of humours, and you would have acted to bring him down - as you brought down Thomas More! Was it not your perjury that destroyed him? How can I know with any certainty that you would not perjure yourself again to bring down MY Raven?_

I flinch at his claim over Cromwell as 'his', "I could not - I _would_ not do such a thing!" I cannot help but defend myself, "My act against More was at Cromwell's orders! I did what he asked of me! And he did it because the king demanded it of him! If _my_ act was despicable, how could it be less despicable than the act of asking me to do what he could not do himself?"

_The Mission is All, you venomed skainsmate! That was his obligation, but what was yours? Did you relish the opportunity to bring down a greater man than you, and perhaps even supplant him? That was what you thought when you found the Raven in your presence with a mortal wound! THAT is why I consider you to be the most unworthy Second in all of the order! You have failed him, more times than can be counted - and almost brought him to his death! Thus shall I pray a thousand prayers for yours! It is better that his Second be a shade than one who would knife him in the back if it could bring him advancement!_

The words themselves are hurtful, certainly; for they are intended to be, though they themselves are of no importance, for I have been called worse - instead, it is the anger behind them, the furious rage at my continued failures to be of any use to his - _his_ \- Silver Sword that is truly painful to bear. He is right - I have failed, over and over again, "Thomas trusts me." I confine myself to a single, flat statement. I am not sure I could trust myself to say more.

_And shall that be his downfall, Rich? Do you not covet his chain of office? His status? One so base-born as he should not wear such finery, or be so raised up - is that not your thought?_

I would have done, once. In fact, I _did_. I despised him for all of that - but then he begged me not to die, when I was bleeding all over his precious Turkish carpet, and clasped my hand tightly as I burned in agony from the sovereign specific, and struggled to swallow the cordial. Then he went down on his knees before a gloating demon for the sole reason that to do so would keep me alive. I could no more despise him now than I could drive a knife into a child. I have sworn my loyalty to him - such as it is - and I know he would swear it to me in return.

"I am not that man anymore." I repeat, rather more firmly this time, "I have earned his trust. I hope that, in time, I shall earn yours too."

_You are a shallow, cowardly rat. Do not lie to me. Or to yourself. You shall fail him again - and again. And I have no doubt that you shall be considered the poorest of Seconds for all time - for none have been required to clear mess from any other Second, as I have been obliged to chase behind you as a boy chases behind the horses to gather their shit! Get out of MY library, you squirming weasel!_

I had no idea how much Wolsey hated me, not until now - and he has good reason to, it appears; but I am not that man any more. I know that I am not. Cromwell trusts that I am not. I am not…I am _not_ …am I?

"It is not your library…" I begin, but he interrupts me, _It is most certainly not yours! Leave it! Leave now and never take it upon yourself to sully the pages it holds with your grub-stained fingers again! I will not have my Silver Sword associating with a creature such as you! I saw your nature when I lived, and I will not believe that it is any different now! GET OUT!_

This, I cannot stand - not so much the anger of the words, but that rolling tide of contempt that inspires them. I want to shout back, to berate that voice for its insults, but I cannot; for what if Wolsey is right? What if I am no more capable than he considers me to be? I have failed so many times…

Snatching up the lantern, I flee.

* * *

Wyatt is already in Cromwell's chambers when I arrive, and they are sitting down to supper. Both look up in surprise as I enter the chamber, as I am supposed to be at Grant's Place tonight. Instead, however, I am standing in the doorway with melting snow dripping off my cloak and bonnet - as the light snow I had witnessed from the chamber had grown to a heavy fall by the time I was aboard Adrian and making my way back to Whitehall.

William immediately takes my wet outer garments, and ushers me inside. While the table is set for two, there are still sufficient quantities of victuals for more - but I have no appetite, and shake my head when William offers to set out a plate for me. Instead, I seat myself beside the fire and bask in its warmth - something that was singularly lacking in the library.

"What has happened, Richard?" Wyatt asks, concerned.

"Wolsey came to me in the Library." I mutter, shortly, "It appears that his shade is now haunting it."

"That does not explain why you have returned." Cromwell advises, rising from the table to bring me a cup of claret, "It is news that you could easily have brought to us in the morning - assuming that the snow ceases tonight."

"He threw me out."

"He did _what_?" Wyatt looks at me, astonished, "Literally?"

"He insulted me in every manner possible, and demanded that I leave."

Cromwell draws up another chair, and sits opposite me, "He had no right to do that, Richie. It is no longer his library."

"Apparently, to him, it is. And you are still 'his' Silver Sword." Jesu, I do not need to start crying again - and yet, I want to. I thought I had put all of that nonsense behind me.

His expression hardens, "This is unacceptable. In disparaging you, Richie, he is questioning my choices. I do not consider it appropriate for my activities to be criticised by a previous Second. That is your prerogative as my current one."

"Perhaps you might like to advise him of that, the next time he visits you." I cannot help but sound bitter.

"Oh, I shall." Cromwell says, firmly.

"He's jealous." Wyatt says, suddenly.

"Pardon?" Cromwell turns to him, surprised.

"Wolsey. It seems quite obvious to me. He is jealous of Richard - for he is no longer your Second, but Richard is. As he remains in your service, he has no wish to accept that another is in his place, and thus he strikes out. Have you not said before that he regards you as the true-born son he did not have?"

Wolsey - jealous of me? I had certainly not considered such a possibility - neither, it seems, has Cromwell.

"You seem most observant as to the human condition, Mr Wyatt." Cromwell says.

"As I have said to Richard - I am a poet: I make it my business to observe the human condition. Aside from aiding my creativity, it is one of the qualities that makes me an excellent spy."

"Except when you wear too much sandalwood scent." Cromwell reminds him, a humorous glint in his eye. Even I manage to smile at that.

Then Cromwell turns back to me, "When you are next in the library - _your_ Library - I have no doubt that Wolsey shall take it upon himself to approach you again; for he was always unable to act with discretion over matters such as this. You must respond to any insult he visits upon you with an insult or rudeness of your own. It does not do to be defensive with his late Eminence; for he despised such behaviour when alive, and I have no doubt would do the same now that he is dead.

"I learned early on that he respects those who do not show such deference to him; and certainly, if I ever spoke to him in a manner he considered to be defensive or deferential, he would strike me. It is worth noting that, even as you were once an objectionable individual, so was he. He stole, embezzled, whored and lived with a woman despite all of his vows as a Cardinal. That might not make him any different from any other who wears the red tasselled hat; but it was still against all he was meant to stand for. If he despises you for the faults that you have eradicated, or are in the process of eliminating from yourself, then remind him of his own - for he did not do as you have done. Otherwise, why would he be in Purgatory?"

"I almost did." I admit, "But his words struck at me, and I had not the heart to do it; for, if I am to be truly honest with myself, he was right in most respects."

"Do not hesitate to give as you receive, Richie," Cromwell advises, firmly, "Wolsey expects that - and he respects it. Remember that, above all, _you_ are my Second now, not he. It is to you that he must defer, not the other way about - and if he does not recognise that, then you have every right to remind him of it - forcefully if need be."

"And you must remind him - again, forcefully - that you are _not_ the man he refused to accept into his service." Wyatt adds, "We have seen that, and Wolsey must be made to see it if he does not. For I think he _chooses_ not to see."

I had not thought such a thing. I suppose that, unlike Wyatt, I do not see what drives men to think, and act, as they do. I did not see it in myself until he did - that is certain. His assessment turns all upon its head for me, and I realise that, far from considering me to be incompetent, Wolsey _wants_ me to be so, for then he can place himself back in his former state as Thomas's Second. But, while I have made errors, I am _not_ the bumbling fool he wishes me to be. Cromwell asked me to be his Second because he considered me to be intelligent. I think that I must show that he was not wrong in that assessment, for I have not been particularly intelligent in my behaviour over the last three days.

* * *

The snow has not let up overnight, and is lying in thick drifts as I make my way back to the Mews. Cromwell has decided that I shall be 'ill' today, in order to avoid annoying Wriothesley again, and instead return to Grant's Place to complete what I intended to do. If Wolsey decides to visit me again, then I shall take his advice, and respond to the Cardinal's insults in kind.

While the gardeners have done what they can to clear the paths, they are still slippery, and it takes me some time to pick my way, as my boots have much thicker soles than any of my shoes, and I do not wish to lose my footing. This does, however, give the grooms time to saddle Adrian, as John sent ahead that I would be needing him, and I do not have to wait until we depart. The wind is bitter, and I am thickly wrapped in furs under my cloak, but my hands are soon numb with cold despite woollen gloves under a pair of thick gauntlets, and I am most grateful when I arrive back at Grant's Place to find Goodwife Dawson fetching me a tankard of mulled cider, and Dickon ushering me to a chair in a warm chamber so that I can at least get some feeling back into my extremities before I return to the Library and battle with Wolsey again.

The Library is silent when I emerge from the stairs, and I decide to commence my amendments to the Index. If Wolsey intends to visit, I have no doubt he shall do so in his own time. The quill is where I left it yesterday, still sharpened and unmarked by ink, though Molly had, wisely, cleaned out the inkhorn after her last visit here and has not been back since that time. She prepares excellent ink, however, and there is some in a bottle nearby.

It takes me a moment to find the reference that I was seeking, and I amend the entry to state that the malevolence has been destroyed, and it shall no longer trouble us. I just hope that it was the only one of its kind - but as the references to it seem to cover only small areas, within easy reach of each other, I feel it is a reasonable assumption to make. I use my neatest hand to make the amendment, and finish it with a wholly unnecessary flourish.

_I thought I told you to get out of my Library_.

Ah. He is back, then. It sounds as though he is at my left shoulder.

"You did." I advise him, casually, "But, as this is _my_ Library, I have come back."

_Pert, as well. Am I meant to be impressed?_

"It's of no interest to me whether you are impressed or not, Eminence. I have work to do, and I'd thank you to let me get on with it."

_If you consider your rank incompetence to be 'work', then I suppose you must_.

"It must be nice to be perfect." I muse, "Never to have made a mistake in the entirety of your life. I'm given to understand that you made gross errors of judgement that would have killed a Silver Sword, had one been assigned to you at the time. I, at least, have managed to avoid such a calamity."

_Through my intervention, Rich._

"You made it possible for me to pass on the vital instruction, Wolsey," I remind him, "Were it not for me being able to hear you, then the Queen would never have known to do what she was dispatched to do. Thus, I was as involved as you were."

There is no reply. Instead, he snorts - and I realise that that was the sound that I had heard that had so unnerved me when first I had heard it. "If you have nothing worthwhile to say to me, then I suggest you depart. As I have told you, I have work to do."

_And what do you intend to do?_

I am not sure whether he is being sarcastic, or asking a genuine question, so I opt to believe it to be the latter, "I intend to review some of the uncatalogued material, in hopes of securing more information about the jewels Red Fire and Blue Fire. Thomas has written to the House to ask that the spies be placed ready to seek them out. If there is a reference to their location, then it shall quicken the search. Lamashtu will not wait forever for us to be ready."

_I have no doubt that it is just as well that she has waited as long as she has._

"Did _you_ point out that story for me to find?" I demand, knowing full well that he did not.

_Given that that is, so far, the only act of yours to have been even halfway intelligent, I should not consider you to be fully ready for the task you have been set._

"And how long did it take _you_ to become so intimately acquainted with the information this repository contains?" I demand, crossly, "Given the amount of material that is yet to be catalogued, how much more is there that I can find? Besides, was it not _your_ blunder in forgetting to include the cross reference that led to our being left uninformed about the danger of that malevolence until it was too late?"

_And you were too engaged with work in your gilded palace to come and seek it out for yourself?_

"With no suggestion that the malevolence was dangerous? The only way that I can imagine that you could not have made more of that cross reference was because you missed it, as we did! Therefore, to blame me, and me alone, for a mistake that you made as equally as I serves no purpose. If you cannot find it in yourself to set that aside, then you are not the man that I thought you to be, and certainly not the man that Thomas so admires."

_How dare you speak so!_ _What do you know of his journey to become the Raven? Of my years of work to become a Second worthy of the enterprise he was tasked to undertake? And you think yourself my equal?_

"Thomas does." I tell him, stubbornly, "He did not tell me so, he told his manservant - and I overheard him repeat those words back to him. In fact, he considers that I could be more than your equal. Thus I expect you to stand aside and allow me the time and study to _become_ more than your equal."

I am glad no one else is here to see this. I am squabbling with a ghost, for Christ's sake.

_You gabbling ferret!_ Wolsey shouts, furious, _You are naught but a cowardly, lying snake who has assumed a mantle for which you are not fit! You could never be a Second worthy of the challenge that lies ahead!_

"And you are a thieving embezzler who forsook his vows of chastity to take a mistress!" I retort, fighting with myself not to match his anger, "Yet you considered yourself to be equal and worthy of this challenge that you claim I am to face? I am no saint, I have never claimed to be, and over the last few days, God knows that I have learned just what a vile creature I was when you turned me away from your service. But I am not that man, not any more - and the reason why I am not that man is because I am the Second to the Raven, and that has forced me to reconsider all that I stood for, all that I believed. You _were_ his Second, but you died! You overstretched yourself and were toppled by others who sought the power you had accumulated for your own benefit. If _anyone_ failed the Raven, _you_ did - by leaving him bereft and forced to seek another Second to aid him. You have failed _me_ in leaving me to find my way through this task alone!"

I expect him to all but explode - but instead, he starts to laugh, a strange, disembodied sound that echoes about the shelves.

_So you_ do _have a backbone, Rich._ He chortles, _I had thought you to be no better than the young man who presented himself to me those long years ago with nothing to recommend him but a sly determination to grasp what he could no matter what the cost to any, as long as it was not himself._

"I am Thomas's Second now, Eminence." I remind him again, "Not you. Therefore I will not accept insults from you without responding in kind. I refuse to allow my faith in myself to be so crushed again - for there was still the sin of self-pity to be banished from me, and I have done what I can to expunge it."

He seems to sigh. _As he told me, himself._ He says, _I intended to speak to him last night, for now that he wears the rosary, I can reach him when he dreams. He appears to know the power it grants him over his dreaming, for I could not say a word to him before he scolded me for my treatment of you - for, in doing so, I was casting aspersions upon his competence as a Silver Sword. I had not seen the depths of his trust in you, Rich. For I saw only that another had supplanted me. He was as a son to me, the true-born son I never had, and it grieved me to know that he needed my aid no longer, for he had chosen a Second for himself, as I had not been able to do._

"I think we have evidenced most strongly that, regardless of whether or not you are his Second, you are hardly not needed." I admit, "I still have much to learn - and until I have learned it, my usefulness to him is limited."

_That is something that we must address._ Wolsey advises, much more calmly now, _But, I know that our Raven has chosen well - for his trust in you is absolute, and I have never known his trust to be misplaced. I plead with you to forgive me, Richard Rich, for I am a soul in Purgatory, and if I am to enter heaven, I must acknowledge my sins. I looked upon you as one who had stolen that which I valued most in all the world: a son, as much as he could be one to me. In my departure, as a father, he has you: a brother._

I turn to where the voice appears to be coming from. Now is not the time to be vindictive - I might once have been so, but that was before I discovered the undercurrents of an entire other world that existed alongside all I thought I knew. I bow, formally, "I forgive you, Eminence, if you will forgive my foolishness and the defensiveness that drove you to evict me from our Library."

He is silent a moment, _Then we are even_.

"We are." I agree, "And you can start telling me what this challenge is, and what I need to know to meet it."


	13. The Best of News

I have learned a great deal over the last few days; though I seem to have incurred Wriothesley's ire in the doing, as I have been absent from my post in that time. The strange thing is that I cannot pass what I have learned to Cromwell, for it concerns me alone, and I have been sworn to secrecy.

I had no idea that Seconds kept secrets from their Silver Swords - or that there was more to the task I have accepted than merely delving into books. Perhaps I should be afraid, but - for the first time I can recall - I am not. Instead, I am intrigued; for it seems that only I, with Wolsey to aid me, have been granted such a mission.

I had thought it was the Royal Rosary that had brought Wolsey to me as a shade in the Library; but it appears not. In that moment when I came so close to abandoning Cromwell and Wyatt, my belief in myself so utterly crushed, but instead stayed: that decision sealed my acceptance of my place as a Second. Before that, I had perhaps no more than played a part in a mime - but now I have willingly, absolutely, and irrevocably, chosen to stand at the side of the Raven.

That England was in danger from the forces of darkness is something I was told from the very beginning; and that its danger was greater than that of any nation in the world, I knew also. What we had not known, until most recently, was the identity of that which menaced the realm - for none had until Wolsey found documents to identify her. Not even she who had foreseen all: Cassandra, the Second who was also a witch. Lamashtu is more dangerous than merely a lover of Chaos, or a killer of children: she has power to such a degree that she is deadly to all of the universe in which we live. To gain a foothold in England, she had slaughtered demons beyond counting, as she answered to none - and her presence, her very _existence_ is an aberration that threatens the balance between light and dark. It is not merely Cromwell, but also I, who have been tasked with bringing about her end. If we fail, then nothing, and no one, can stop her. For her destruction must be in human hands - were God to confront her directly, it could destroy all of existence.

Blind though she was to the nature of the evil that we face, Cassandra took steps to ensure that we would be prepared to meet it - and that is what has created the conduit for Wolsey to offer more than measures to aid us _in extremis_. She communicated with him from beyond the living world, and in doing so taught him to do the same - but such a skill relies upon the one who receives the message as much as the one who sends it. Until I had truly accepted that I was Cromwell's Second, I could not hear his words unless necessity forced Wolsey's hand. Now, however, I can.

It seems that Wolsey was not destined to stand at the side of the Raven to face Lamashtu - as it is necessary to have his abilities as a shade to supplement mine as a mortal man. I have only the faculties with which I was born; nothing else. If we are to be aided supernaturally, it must be through the auspices of Wolsey. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I have someone to turn to that has enabled me to set my fear aside for once.

For my part, I must find out more about her - and the manner in which we can destroy her. As this requires me to be in the Library, I am now placed in a quandary, as the sheer numbers of raveners that infest Whitehall at night means that I am now also needed to stay there to join in the fight against them. We had always assumed that they had been sent in order to distract Cromwell - but now I cannot help but wonder if they are instead there to distract me. I cannot be in two places at once, and Wolsey can only communicate with a committed Second, so he cannot help Molly.

I am, therefore, back at Grant's Place, though I know that I cannot do this for much longer without putting both Cromwell and Wyatt at risk. With so much material still to be catalogued, I could find anything here - but it will take me far longer, as I must seek through each document, rather than narrow down to one, and find that. I look at another dusty pile of papers set atop a small dresser, and sigh, a little despondently. If only I had more _time_.

_Stop complaining, for God's sake. The Mission does not require whingeing and whining._

" _You_ try getting back here every night when there are raveners by the dozen in the precincts at Whitehall. Cromwell cannot spare me for much longer. What use would I be against Lamashtu if a ravener made a fortuitous strike?" I collect the papers together, and try to blow dust away without setting myself to sneezing, "I appear to be more than just a mere bookworm in this task - though it would make life more simple for me if I _was_ just a bookworm."

_But you are not. You have trials of your own to face - and more to learn. This is perhaps another trial, perhaps not: but it is certainly more to learn. Get to it._

"I shall if you could just shut up your mouth and leave me in peace." I grunt back, crossly. To my relief, Wolsey snorts with amusement, and his voice fades. Perhaps, in time, I shall be able to know when he is present, rather than be startled by his voice appearing out of nowhere. At the moment, however, I cannot, so instead I begin working my way through the papers in hopes of finding guidance on the locations of Red Fire and Blue Fire - and what the hell we do with them once we have them.

* * *

It has been a bitter winter, with frequent, heavy snowfalls that have brought hardship upon the people outside the Palace walls. Cromwell has put his bribes to the best use he can, and even the very few purses of gold that seem to come my way have joined that small fund.

The roads are still too boggy to enable Parliament to be recalled, for most of the Commons cannot yet reach London; but our workload has begun to grow in preparation for their arrival. The clerks are spending much of their time checking for copying errors, while Cromwell, Wriothesley and I spend long, dull hours checking clauses to ensure that they cannot be misread or misrepresented.

Cromwell has recovered from the incident that so incapacitated him at the start of the year, though it took him some time to do so. I, in the meantime, have learned an enormous amount from Wolsey - albeit peppered with his habitual insults which, I have also learned, are perhaps the most clear sign that I have begun to earn his respect. In the time I have had available to do so, I have certainly catalogued a fair number of papers that were left untouched when Wolsey was obliged to leave London. I still, however, have not found any further information of use to me.

After a long morning poring over documents, we are all tired, hungry and burdened with strained eyes; but there is no time to rest or eat, and it is not until the evening that any of us are able to leave the papers with any sense of satisfaction. If Cromwell is a perfectionist, it is only because the King demands it, and perceives anything less to be an insult - and he is not above responding to an insult, even an imagined one, with his fists.

We sup, as usual, in Cromwell's apartments, having stopped at our own to change into our black clothing for the hunt ahead. Two days past, he told me that it was no longer possible for me to be spared from the nightly hunts, as the numbers of raveners are now verging upon an infestation, and all of us must now fight against them. I considered this problem with Wolsey, as he seems not to be able to approach me anywhere other than the Library; the sole exception being the coffer that contained the paper about the Royal Rosary which I have brought to my quarters - as he appears to be able to use that to anchor himself. Now that we have forged a working relationship, it is not something that I am keen to lose. He recognises, as I do, that Molly can assist us very ably, so he is not as irked by my enforced separation from the books as he might have been.

No sooner have we slipped into one of the side passages used by the servants than we are confronted with a lone ravener who hisses at us viciously; but seems disinclined to do anything else. So compliant is the beast that it seems quite content to stand and wait for its head to be separated from its shoulders, and it is easily dispatched with a single slice of one of the silver blades - accompanied by that sweet, musical whistle as it cuts through the air.

By the time the Palace clock has struck eleven, we have encountered three raveners, all of which have been dispatched to dust, and we have separated out somewhat. As I have the poniard, I am able to dispatch any that I might find, but Wyatt has no silvered weapon, so we instead act as a combination of beater and bait, flushing them out and bringing them to Cromwell to finish them off. We are becoming surprisingly good at this, even I, for I have far less knowledge of these labyrinthine passageways than Cromwell, or even Wyatt.

We continue in this vein for another week as the last of the snow melts away, and only a few frosts trouble the gardeners in the last few weeks of February. I am even learning to manage the lack of sleep, though the wideness of my yawns on occasion causes one of the older clerks to suggest that I might look away from him, lest he fall in.

Both Wyatt and Cromwell are concerned at the sheer numbers of raveners that we are now encountering. I think I have worked out why they are there - for Lamashtu sees me as almost as much a threat as the Raven - but as it touches upon matters that Wolsey requires me to keep to myself, I cannot offer any explanation. I am, however, grateful that I have the sword skills that I now possess, and I carry a sword as well as the poniard; for Lamashtu is surely sending the raveners not to harm Cromwell, but to harm me. That said, there could be another reason; not that any of us have the nerve to ask.

It is as we meet with the Queen to give our report of our doings, in the early days of March, that we finally discover there _is_ more than one reason for the sheer swarms of raveners. She waits until we have told her all - or at least that which I _can_ tell her - before she sits back in her chair with a smile.

"Gentlemen," she says quietly, holding Lady Rochford's hand, "I am pleased to announce that I am with child."

Cromwell bows deeply, and we do likewise, but we allow him to speak for us, "Majesty, for all of us, I offer you my heartiest wishes of joy to you and to the King. Be assured that we shall do all that we can, and give all that we have, to protect you, and the babe that you carry. We shall not fail you."

"I know that you shall give all for me, and for my child." She acknowledges, "With God's help, perhaps at last I can bring a male heir to the succession, and we shall, between us, save England from the darkness that threatens her."

God, I hope so.

* * *

As we leave the Queen's presence chamber, Cromwell turns to me, "I shall hunt with Wyatt tonight. You should advise Molly to be ready to search the Library for anything that might aid us in our work to protect her Majesty. If you think it wise, I shall authorise you to take leave of the Palace in daylight hours to search the Library yourself. Wriothesley can complain all he wishes, but the Queen's safety is paramount."

I nod in agreement, and return to my own quarters. While Molly does need to search, I have a more immediate source of information to which I can turn. It is, after all, much easier to find something if you know what it is that you are looking for.

"Her Majesty is with child, Eminence." I murmur quietly, having dismissed John for the night, "We shall protect her in person, but if there is any other protection to hand, then it would be most useful. Are you aware of anything to which I can direct Molly?"

_I can think of several possibilities; but which would be most suitable, I can only leave to your assessment as I cannot access items in the living world and thus cannot read them. You must not leave the palace, however. Not unless it becomes essential - Thomas's presence near the Queen is sufficient to keep Lamashtu at bay for the moment. I shall advise him so._

"Am I to continue to fight, then?"

_For the moment, yes. You are needed here more than you are needed in Grant's Place. Should that change, you shall know._

At least that decision is still in my hands. As I have been dismissed for the night, I decide that the best choice would be to take advantage of the time to snatch some rest. We can plan how to protect her Majesty in the morning.

* * *

I am at my desk when Cromwell arrives in the offices, having been with the King to receive the news of the Queen's pregnancy. He passes the news around the clerks with a very fine show of being delightedly surprised by the announcement, despite our already having received it from the Queen herself the previous evening. It markedly lightens the atmosphere - even Wriothesley seems to be cheerful - and there is a sense of real hope that we might, at last, have a prince. A safely completed pregnancy would be welcome, certainly; but more so if the resulting babe is a boy.

Once again, Cromwell takes me aside, "Her Majesty has asked us to see her tonight. I suspect she is expecting us to outline our plans for protecting her."

"That doesn't give me any time to get to Grant's Place, Thomas - or for Molly to carry out research even if I send a messenger in the next hour."

"In the interim, all that we can do is continue to patrol the corridors, and ensure that we are in close proximity to the Queen's apartments." He agrees, "I shall stay closest to her - even though my swords will not harm Lamashtu, it may be that the Rosary might offer some form of protection, for it seems to have been granted to me for protective purposes as much as curative. I have no desire to risk either your life, or Tom's, against her without even that small shield. I was not able to protect Katherine, for I did not have the rank I hold now, so could not approach her except upon the orders of the King, nor could I protect Anne, for I did not know that she required protection, and would not have been able to protect her even if I had. I shall not fail Jane."

"Nor shall we, Thomas." I add, quietly, "If we have been gathered for a purpose, then I can only imagine that the purpose is this. Therefore we are at your side through all - whatever happens from here on."

He smiles, and rests a hand upon my shoulder, "For that, Richie, I am most grateful. The burden that we face is heavy, and I know I could not carry it alone."

We sup early, as the Queen is intent that we should complete our meeting with her in good time to be out hunting for raveners. Her intention to ensure that all are protected, as well as she, is still strong, despite her need for additional protection.

"I think the Rosary may offer some protective properties, Majesty," Cromwell advises, "Thus I intend to remain in close proximity to your apartments - both to keep raveners at bay, and to protect against the malice of Lamashtu, should she opt to interfere with your condition at any point. She seems to be most active at night, but I shall do all that I can to ensure your safety at all times."

"Thank you, my Lord." She smiles, though there is a tightness in that smile - she knows the danger she faces, "If you require assistance from me in any act that you must undertake to secure the safety of my babe, you have but to ask."

We bow, the meeting at an end, and are just rising to withdraw when the door to the Chamber opens, and Beauchamp marches in as though he owns the place. He sees us at once, and stops still, glaring at us as though we are poisonous creatures that have sneaked in through a rat-hole.

While he might have no interest in Wyatt's presence, for he is a poet, and such a familiar face about the court that no one seems even to notice him, Cromwell is an entirely different matter, and so am I.

"And what, may I ask, are you doing in the Queen's apartments?" he demands, coldly.

"They are here at my invitation, Edward." The Queen advises, irked at his presumption.

"Then I suggest that you _un_ invite them, Sister." Beauchamp grates, his eyes fixed upon us, "You are now with child, and it is not appropriate that you associate with… _unsuitable_ persons."

Cromwell says nothing. Even I know that to speak now would be most unwise - and would undoubtedly make matters worse, as the Queen's true power is being revealed for us to see. She has none. Not against a man - even one who is, allegedly, her subject.

"I am quite able to determine who is suitable to enter my presence, and who is not, Brother." She says, thickening the atmosphere even more deeply.

"You are carrying the King's child, Sister." Beauchamp snaps, "Therefore you are no longer your own person. Your task, for task it is, is to provide him with a son. That, and nothing else, is your purpose - and you are to cease such associations as these. I consider it my duty, as your brother, to ensure the wellbeing of my nephew; for he is, in case you have forgotten, the future King. Mere _courtiers_ are not suitable company for a Prince - even unborn."

This is an argument that we should not be witnessing, so Cromwell bows again, "Then we shall depart, my Lord." He turns to the Queen, "Your Majesty."

She nods to us, though it is clear that she is dismayed at how easily her brother has won the argument against her. Such is the role of a Queen.

"What do we do now?" Wyatt asks quietly as we hurry away, "You cannot protect her if you are not permitted to enter her presence chamber, Thomas."

"I shall not discount it until I know for certain how the argument turns out, Tom." Cromwell answers, "If necessary, her Majesty may well take this to the King - though I doubt that he would accept any argument from her in terms of being protected by a member of her family."

"Then I must go to Grant's Place, I think." I add, "Raveners or no raveners, if we cannot gain access to the Queen's person, then we cannot offer her the protection that she needs. I shall have to go in daylight hours, to ensure that I am here to assist with the hunting."

"I shall deal with Wriothesley, Richie," Cromwell agrees, "But I suggest we cross that bridge only if we come to it. Slim chance it may be, but if the Queen prevails, then we may not need to risk your absence at night if you cannot return from Grant's Place."

"You consider the raveners to be that much of a problem, then?" Wyatt asks.

"I do. There are so many now that I cannot safely spare either of you. I shall need to provide you with a silver blade, Tom - for you cannot dispatch a ravener with your sword. I think a knife with your sword - as Richie has begun to carry - would be a worthwhile combination."

"I have found it most suitable." I agree.

With that in mind, we stop at the offices, and Cromwell raids his weapons cupboard for a solid knife that is banded with silver, "Take this, Tom. Use it to finish off the raveners that you bring down with your sword. Do not use it alone - raveners are too quick for a short blade. It would be luck alone that would guide a knife home."

Wyatt nods, "Thank you, Thomas. I shall take good care of it."

"I am more concerned that it take good care of you."

Our hunt is successful, and, by the time we return to our respective quarters, we have dispatched seven raveners over the course of three hours. That said, the sheer numbers we are now encountering is becoming troublesome; sooner or later one of them is going to revert to instinct, I am sure. If only we could find some way to repel them that did not involve hunting. Perhaps I should look for something that might help with that, too. Assuming that I can get to Grant's Place to carry out a search.

The decision is made for us the very next morning, as Lady Rochford visits my Chambers in the early morning with a letter. She says nothing as she hands it to me, and I know she is still deeply uncomfortable in my presence. Rather than read it immediately, I decide instead to hand it to Cromwell. I already have my suspicions over the contents, but it is something that we should consider together, I think.

We are early into the offices, and none of the Clerks are present. Wriothesley is busy amidst files, so we are unobserved as Cromwell breaks the seal to read the contents. I am not surprised when he sits back in his chair, and sighs, "She lost the argument."

I take the letter back and read it through. As we expected, Beauchamp has taken it upon himself to control access to the Queen. This appears to consist of barring access to all other than the King; not even senior nobles are apparently permitted to come into her presence now, so mere Courtiers such as Cromwell or I have no possible means of entry. It could not be a worse outcome.

"So," I mumble, crossly, "Not only has someone without any means to protect the Queen decided that it his task to do so, but he has effectively sealed her away from the only ones who _can_ protect her. Why is he being so overcautious?"

"I suspect his caution has more to do with securing his own position than keeping her safe from harm, Richie." Cromwell admits, quietly, "She is his primary means of maintaining his position at court, or possibly even achieving greater honours. If her Majesty _does_ bear a son, there would almost certainly be a higher noble rank awaiting him as a reward."

"Do you consider him to be that much of a mercenary?" I ask.

"I hope that I am wrong - but I suspect that I am right."

"And the Queen could pay the worst possible price for it."

"That is so - but not only the Queen. All of England. The King is not getting any younger. Whether we like it or no, the King's ability to father children is not what it was; not if Tom is to be believed about his mistresses. We must have an heir - preferably two - or the Kingdom cannot be said to be secure." Cromwell's voice is now very low, for his words are treasonous, whether or not he is correct in his view, "For all we can say, this may be the only opportunity that we have to save the Kingdom from disaster. As it is, the babe would almost certainly come into his inheritance in his minority. The risk of factions forming around him remains great, so we must defeat Lamashtu, or we are lost."

* * *

The day seems to drag, despite the mountain of work I have on my desk. I know that I should be working through the papers that are in front of me, but I cannot concentrate. If we do not defeat Lamashtu, then we are lost…if we do not…we are lost…she wins…we die… _all_ die…

But until I know _how_ to defeat her, we are helpless. It is only now that I realise just how much of this enterprise rests upon me. I might not have been afraid when Wolsey first hinted at this, but now, I am. I have failed so many times - but failure is no longer an option for me. I can no longer afford to make mistakes - not with the fate of a Kingdom, no: all of _mankind_ at stake. Christ, why did I let myself think _that_?

A shadow falls across the desk, and I look up to see Cromwell looking down at me. From the look on his face, he knows what I am thinking, and he sympathises, for it is not far from his thoughts about his own mission. He can no more afford to fail than I, but my failure would be the cause of his…it would be my fault if we failed…

"You seem tired, Mr Rich." He says, loudly enough for all to hear, "Walk with me. There are some matters pertaining to the bills that I need to discuss with you, and perhaps some air might revive your thoughts."

Never before have I been more grateful for an invitation to leave my desk. I am in such a state of nervous tension that I fear I might shed tears again, and that is a humiliation that I could well do without.

Our route takes us out into the ornamental gardens, where the early March sun is persuading crocuses out of the ground to mix their oranges and violets with the green of the grass. Somewhere nearby, a robin is singing, and the world seems so utterly at peace with itself. Cromwell indicates a stone bench, and we seat ourselves. The hedges that surround it are only at knee height, and the paths are gravel, so there is no danger of any unwanted listener creeping up on us.

"You have realised the true burden of being my Second, haven't you, Richie?" Cromwell says, quietly.

I nod, "Now I know why Wolsey was the most highly trained Second in the history of the Order. The price of failure on my part will be pitifully high." I look at my hands - and they are shaking.

"A baptism of fire." He agrees, then turns slightly so that he is looking directly at me, "You can do it, Richie. We have Wolsey's advice to help you - for he knows things that you do not, and can tell you, through me. You have your own resources, which are more than capable of meeting the challenge ahead. The untrustworthy man that you were is no more - and you are ready to step forth as my Second. I trust in that more than you do, I think."

He does not know that Wolsey already speaks to me - and I cannot tell him, for I am sworn to secrecy. I have never, at any time, been entrusted with something as great as this; but then, has anyone?

"I think it was meant to be this way," Cromwell continues, looking back out across the gardens, "Wolsey has access to knowledge and understanding that we could never own, for he is no longer of this earth. He has taken his knowledge with him, but we can reach it. In saving England from disaster, I think we have saved him, and we have saved you."

"Me?" I am confused at such a statement. At what point was I in danger and required saving?

"Come now, Richie - I think we both know that, until that time you found me dying, you were a most despicable excuse for a man, were you not? Before I realised that you had the talent to become my Second, I selected you to find the evidence that the King wanted against More because you knew him, knew how to trap him and were unscrupulous enough to agree to do it. I did not trust you - nor did any man at Court. Wolsey despised you, and even Thomas Audley, kindly and generous to all men though he was, thought that you would do more harm than good if he advanced your career. Though he consented to do so."

"Am I supposed to thank you for that assessment?" I ask, in a rather brittle tone.

"You can do so if you wish - but I have a better one in its place. There was an honourable man inside the walls you had built about yourself, a man with integrity and courage. In the last year, the walls have been toppled, and you have emerged from it as a prisoner emerges from a long incarceration into the sunlight. As I have hidden my true nature, so have you - though my reasons for doing so are undoubtedly different from yours."

Perhaps he is right - but had I not found out who he truly was, then I certainly do not think that I would have allowed myself to abandon my old nature. It had served me well, protected me from the danger of becoming too attached to any particular faction, and enabled me to change my allegiance as fast as a weather-cock. I had entered the court intending to survive and prosper; and watching those about me topple, I considered that veneer of self-preservation to be the best armour I could have - far ahead of friendship and loyalty. After all, loyalty switches, and friends can abandon you. I considered it better to have neither.

Until I became Cromwell's Second, of course: now, I have a purpose, and a commitment that I cannot abandon as I would once have done. It may have made me a better man, but it has also made me an endangered one.

"There is still time, Richie," Cromwell advises, quietly, "As long as we can protect Queen Jane, and she brings us a son, then we have breathing space. I think we should reconsider your returning to Grant's Place. If Beauchamp continues to obstruct us, then we shall have to find another way - and that is almost certain to lie in the Library."

"I have too much work to do at present, Thomas," I admit, "I had hoped to clear what I had, but I have not managed to do so. I think I shall have to wait until the day after tomorrow, or I shall never be able to catch up with what I have left in abeyance. Much as the Mission is All, so is my legal work - for the King is far less forgiving than Eternity."

Cromwell laughs, "That, alas, is all too true."

That evening, we sup, as we always do, then we hunt - as we now always do. The number of raveners seems to be stable, albeit in the same elevated numbers as before, and Wyatt's additional silver knife has granted him the ability to kill the creatures as much as Cromwell or I can, so now we all fight them. It is, perhaps, just as well that they are so amenable to being slaughtered, for if they were not, then I could not hope to best them.

The following day, I set to work with a will, eager to clear as much of the work as possible. I need to get to Grant's Place, for Beauchamp's desire that we be kept away from the Queen is at least equal to his desire to make it clear to me that I am not forgiven for that stupid incident at Placentia. In the face of all that has happened, I am astounded that he still nurses the insult as some sort of insurmountable hurt; but he is a proud, cold man with a vindictive streak, while I am a very minor courtier.

Today, it is Cromwell that seems distracted, though not so much that his work suffers, for he is better at setting his feelings aside than I. It is only when we gather to sup, prior to another nights hunting, that he explains himself.

"Wolsey came to me last night." He says, using his knife to dig some mutton away from the chop he has set on his plate, "It appears that, in granting the rosary, the Queen saved my life - and now I am protected by a Life Debt."

"A what?" Wyatt asks, intrigued, "Have we fallen into a Chivalric romance, and no one has told me?"

"I am given to understand that a Life Debt is a powerful protection in its own right - and I may keep it, or discharge it. While I owe it to Queen Jane, it is mine to do with as I wish; I am not obliged to return it only to her. In addition to the Rosary, I am under its protection." He seems greatly embarrassed by the idea - but then, he has a very low opinion of all matters that he considers to be akin to superstition - religious or otherwise. Frowning, he stuffs the chunk of mutton he had carved into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully.

"In that case, it is indeed most unfortunate that we are barred from the Queen's presence." I agree, "For, if you are doubly protected, then you could keep Lamashtu from her by your presence alone - or you could discharge the debt, perhaps?"

"Perhaps." He admits, once he has swallowed his mouthful, "but as Beauchamp keeps all away from her; that, I cannot do."

"Then I shall go to Grant's Place on the morrow." I say, firmly, "We need to find something that can protect her - and find a way to set it in motion. That, I can only do with the aid of the Library."

The decision made, we assemble our weapons, conceal them beneath our cloaks, and head out to hunt again. It is remarkable how quickly this has become an established, accepted pattern in our lives - we work, we sup, we hunt. The idea seems quite amusing to me, until Cromwell stops, and I almost crash into him.

"God help us…"

"What?" I ask, bemused, as I am standing behind him.

"Did someone pay the creatures?" Wyatt asks, nervously, and I finally see what they are seeing. We have, as we would have expected, found raveners. What none of us were expecting, however, was to see so many: eight of them.

"Two each, and two spare." Cromwell mutters, darkly. He draws his swords from his waist, while I draw my sword, and the poniard, and Tom does the same with his sword and knife, "We must stand back-to-back, gentlemen. They must not, under any circumstances, be permitted to get behind us, or we are lost. Do not move away from this position unless the alternative is death."

They are all snarling - not at each other, as would be expected given their solitary nature - but at us. It could not be more clear that they have been directed against us, or that they mean our deaths. These appear not to be as obliging as those which came to us almost begging to be slaughtered. They pause, but only for the briefest of moments, and then all charge at us together in a single rush.

Thank God we have two blades each, otherwise we would have been swarmed under in the first attack. I thrust my sword forward, and impale the first of the two that are coming at me, while the poniard drives through the neck of the other. One down. As it falls to dust, it releases the poniard, and I am able to offer the second ravener the same service. But it is not so easy as that - for two are still near: one of them leaps at me with nightmarish speed, and knocks me to the ground, pinning my arms down and spitting and biting at my face.

The sound that emerges from my mouth is not so much a scream as a roar, furious and indignant. The ravener is lighter than I, so I force my right arm down, and push as best I can to roll over, until I am atop the demon. My arms are now free again, and it is a simple matter to drive the poniard home. This time, however, I do not see Zaebos, and I do not stab wildly. Instead, I see the creature begin to fall to dust, and abandon it, returning to my feet to take on any other that might come at me.

But there are none. As Wyatt now has a silver weapon, he has not needed to borrow one from Cromwell, and the presence of two blades each has won the day - or perhaps night. We are all, however, blown by the battle, and I am sure I am not the only one who recognises that such a fight can only mean one thing. If Lamashtu has not already visited the Queen, she shall do so very soon.

It seems that our time has now run out.


	14. An Abrasion on His Soul

"We must speak to her Majesty." Cromwell says, worriedly, "I must know if there is ichor in her presence. I cannot tell unless I am in the Queen's Presence Chamber."

Wolsey has not warned me of Lamashtu's presence, which I am sure he would be able to do, so I am fairly certain that she has not come in person - but that means little while the Queen is as completely unprotected as she is. Does the demoness even need to come into the palace to affect the Queen's babe? I have no idea - though I suspect it likely that she does not.

"Is her malevolence alone sufficient for you to detect, Thomas?" I ask, as it is not something that I have ever considered.

He nods, "Even their activities seem to leave traces of ichor; but I am helpless if I cannot enter the Queen's presence."

Beauchamp has taken extensive steps to keep us out - though it seems that he intends to keep all away: for only the Queen's ladies are permitted entry, and the only men granted admission are Gardiner, the physicians and the King. When Jane leaves her apartments, she is accompanied by a phalanx of her ladies, and always one of the Seymour brothers is nearby, usually with at least two retainers. The younger brother, Thomas, guards her by day, while Beauchamp himself keeps watch by night. He even sleeps in the Queen's Privy Chamber - while she sleeps in the bedchamber next door. There would be no possible means of our visiting her that he would miss. We are as helpless as though we were in chains.

"How are we to reach her?" I ask, "There is no means of slipping past Beauchamp - he would wake, for certain. No matter how quiet we are - we would have to be utterly silent, and even that might not be enough."

"Then he must be made to sleep more heavily." Wyatt says.

"How?"

Cromwell sits back and smiles, "You intend to drug him, do you not, Tom?"

"You have uncovered my evil plan, my Lord." He grins back, a little wickedly, "I have access to certain folk who can lace Beauchamp's wine, and that of his cohort, with something that will send him entirely to the land of dreaming. Thus we can approach her Majesty with impunity."

"When do you plan to effect this?" Cromwell asks.

"I can get us in tonight." Wyatt says, confidently, "Believe me, the servants who bring Beauchamp his victuals have no liking for him, so they would be most eager to embarrass him in return for his treatment of them."

"And why do you have drugs so easily to hand?" I ask him, uncertain whether I am intrigued or scandalised by such a thought.

"That is my secret, Mr Rich." Wyatt grins, tapping his finger to his nose, "Sometimes it is best not to ask questions, as you might not wish to know the answer."

"Then I shall not ask."

There is more than enough work to keep us occupied during the day, so I am not obliged to fret over whether or not Wyatt's plan shall succeed. The reforms that Cromwell is keen to put before parliament are now completed Bills, and all objections have been countered. All that remains is for the Commons to approve them, and then work can begin on dissolving the larger monastic houses. The commissioners are ready to go to work, though Cromwell has taken care to limit their actions as much as possible. The need for peace in the Realm outweighs even his rather blinkered view of the faults of the Church, and the last thing he wishes to do is inflame the people against the King. For myself, I should think that he would be in far more danger from the King's temper than he would ever be from angry burghers.

That, however, is something for another day, as evening is drawing in, and Cromwell proposes an early supper. If Wyatt is able to secure Beauchamp's victuals, then we must be ready to speak to the Queen as soon as he drops. As he and his men are served separately from the Queen and her Ladies, there is no danger of anyone inappropriate being rendered unconscious.

We leave our weapons behind. There is ample time to visit the Queen, then return to Cromwell's apartments to retrieve them before we hunt. Instead, Cromwell leads us to the Queen's apartments via a circuitous route that traverses the servants' passageways. I still cannot find my way so easily by these corridors and alleyways, though some are becoming more familiar.

"It appears that we are in luck." Wyatt murmurs, as we round a corner and see that one of Beauchamp's retainers is already slumped on the ground.

"What did you use?" Cromwell asks, "Surely they cannot have begun to drink so early?"

"Not something too strong, Thomas." Wyatt advises, "I suspect he has helped himself rather too early and too much. Help me get him out of sight - or we shall be discovered."

Between them, they carefully carry the fallen guard to an alcove, where he is more or less hidden by the shadows of the corridor in the dimming light. Carefully, I crouch and put my eye to the keyhole of the door. As expected, Beauchamp is present in the room, and I can just see him - almost at the far edge of my field of view. He sups from a rather ostentatious goblet, and shovels a spoonful of frumenty into his mouth. Behind him, one of the two retainers that he has set to watching me is supping drink from a cup - presumably also laced with whatever Wyatt has arranged to be placed in it. I cannot see the other, but as the one that I _can_ see is yawning mightily, I think that he is also affected.

Sure enough, he sets his cup down, and then droops in his chair, his chin falling to his chest. Beauchamp seems oblivious, however, as he too is starting to look slightly sluggish. Then, unexpectedly, his head nods forward, and he drops. I have to bite down a snort of laughter, for he has fallen face first into his supper.

"What?" Cromwell asks, his voice very low.

"Beauchamp is definitely unconscious." I report, "he has landed in a plateful of frumenty and stew."

I continue to watch, as the Queen's ladies come over to see what is wrong. Then one of them turns to look back, and they all curtsey, before heading towards the door. I scramble back to my feet and indicate that we should hide, "The Queen's dismissed her ladies. I think she knows what is happening."

We hastily dive into any available alcove or corridor, as the door to the apartments opens, and the Queen's ladies depart - though from their conversation, it is merely a temporary dismissal to sup in the Hall. We shall have an hour at the most.

Lady Rochford appears at the doorway, but does not move to depart. Her expression is one of distaste, and she looks about expectantly. As it is clear that she is looking for us, we emerge from our hiding places, and she grudgingly admits us.

The Queen is waiting for us, her expression amused, but also a little concerned. She knows that we would not have done what we have done without good reason - and that reason would be worry for her safety, "I suspect my brother shall be most displeased when he wakes." She smiles.

As we bow, I cannot help but notice the look that Lady Rochford is directing at us. It is clear that she keeps our secret only out of loyalty to the Queen; the awful end to her marriage - unhappy as it was - left her with nothing, and we are to blame for it.

"Lady Rochford," Cromwell addresses her directly, "I wish that we could be on better terms."

Her eyes are hostile, "When my husband was attainted, I wished the same upon you. In order that you could endure what I endured. But for Her Majesty, I would be penniless and without hope of another marriage to match that which I had lost."

"He was a good man, once." Cromwell says, sadly, "He would have made you a fine husband; but the darkness that surrounds this court - the darkness that you have pledged to stand against - entered and influenced him, as it did his father. Before that happened, he was kind, good humoured and generous. I could not prevent his descent into the man he became, nor could I restore the man he had once been. When I failed him, I also failed you - and for that, I am truly sorry."

She frowns: this is not the explanation that she was likely to have expected, "He was a cruel man - but there were times…some times…when he was loving and good to me. I saw so few of those times." Her eyes are filling with tears, and the Queen takes her hand, gently.

"Had I been able, I would have restored him to you, and your life would have been filled with those times." Cromwell tells her, absolutely sincerely, "I promise you, my Lady, that I shall do all that I can to not fail you again - between us, we shall protect and serve her Majesty."

Her expression softens, as she takes in, and accepts his words, "In that case, my Lord, I swear my loyalty to you, your friends and your mission of my own will, not merely in obedience to the will of my Queen. Whatever you ask of me, I shall do."

He bows to her, "I shall never ask you do anything that could bring harm to your Queen, my Lady, nor shall I place you in direct danger."

"I am not afraid of danger. I have survived the attainder and execution of a husband. Do not assume that my skirts hinder me."

He smiles, "I stand corrected, my Lady." Then he turns to the Queen, "I can only ask that you forgive my rude interruption of your evening - and of my Lord Beauchamp's supper. We found ourselves under attack last night from an unexpected number of enemies, and our concern was that such an attack was intended to distract us."

"From Lamashtu?" Jane asks, quietly.

He nods, "As you know, I have the ability to sense demonic activity. Had she even sent her malevolence against you, then that would leave traces that I could detect. I detect nothing, so we are fortunate that she has not yet acted. That, however, cannot be expected to continue, so we must do what we can to protect you."

She sighs, "My brother would never allow you to approach me."

"Then we shall find another way."

* * *

"No, Mr Cromwell. Absolutely not." Jane's voice is implacable.

"The rosary has protective powers, Majesty," Cromwell insists, "It could repel Lamashtu, and her malevolence, should she not be present in person. It would spare you much sorrow."

"It is also not intended to protect me." She reminds him, "I questioned his Grace the Bishop of Winchester about the origins of the Rosary, and he provided me with a document that explains much of the history of the relic."

My eyes widen - something that is not in my Library? How did Wolsey miss it? The Queen notices my confusion, "I am afraid Bishop Gardiner has no liking for you my Lord, or Mr Cromwell, or the late Cardinal. As such, he retained documents that he should perhaps have surrendered - including one that set out the origin of the Royal Rosary."

"What did the document speak of?" Cromwell asks, his tone rather brittle. He is not pleased that petty squabbles have kept him in the dark about something so vital.

"It seems that, when you were taken by the malevolence from which we rescued you, the length of time it held you, and its expulsion, inflicted a degree of damage upon your mortal soul." She says, quietly, "The document made reference to that same effect upon another that was affected as you were - and retrieved, as you were. A Spanish Bishop placed a blessing upon a rosary and placed it in the hands of a Queen - Queen Eleanor, wife of Ferdinand of Aragon - first of that name, for it was the second of her sons who was the victim. In her hands, it recovered him, but it caused an abrasion upon his soul."

Cromwell's eyes widen, and suddenly he looks afraid - to have a damaged soul…what will that mean for him after he is dead?

"It seems that the damage did not affect the character of Prince John, nor would it have caused him to be denied his place in God's Kingdom. Instead, it caused him to weaken, and to sink into a sleep from which none could rouse him. The bishop who blessed the Rosary told the Queen that he must wear the rosary, or keep it in close proximity to his heart, for as long as he lived. The blessing upon it, and its delivery by the hand of a Queen countered the effects of that damage, and so he wore it until his death. It then passed to his son, the second Ferdinand of Aragon, who gifted it to his beloved daughter Catalina: She would become our dear Queen Katherine."

We share nervous glances - had the Rosary been sent to England for just this purpose? How long has this battle been in the preparation? So many illustrious names - royal names; and yet the final fight belongs to a base-born Commoner with two blades.

Jane watches us for a moment, "I do not know what prompted me to insist that you wear the Rosary, for I did so before I knew of its history and provenance. What I know now, however, is that, should you remove it, my Lord Chancellor, you shall weaken and fall into a deep sleep from which you shall never awaken. Therefore, as was so with Prince John, it must never be far from your heart for as long as you live."

"Then allow me to discharge my Life Debt." Cromwell counters, at once.

"Your Life Debt?" the Queen asks, bemused, "What do you mean?" She looks up at me for an explanation.

"When you acted to save him, Majesty," I tell her, "he became indebted to you for his life. It seems that a Life Debt is also a powerful protection in its own right. The Lord Chancellor has the right to retain, or discharge it, as he sees fit. Thus he wishes to grant it back to you."

Again, she shakes her head, "I think not, Sir Richard. I suspect that something so profound has a far more important role. It is best to retain it for more desperate circumstances than this. Is there not any other means that you can try?"

"I have not yet had the opportunity to find out." I admit, "It is my intention to research the matter on the morrow."

"Then you shall do so - and, God willing, find something of use to us." She rises from her chair, and we bow, but she is not yet dismissing us, "Now, Gentlemen, perhaps we should remove my brother from his supper. What do you think?"

* * *

I am tired again, as Adrian plods the now-familiar route from Whitehall to Grant's Place. No sooner had we retrieved our weapons last night than we were faced with another horde of raveners: twelve this time. But for our silver weapons, we would have been overrun - and I am even more convinced that they are being sent more against me than they are against Cromwell, for it seems Lamashtu sees me as almost as great a danger to her plans as the Raven. I have it in me to find that which will destroy her, I suppose. Wolsey had, after all, not found the story of the Red and Blue Fires, and their discovery is now my task. I cannot do that if I am dead. Fortunately, Cromwell seems also to recognise this, and he redoubled his efforts to fight the creatures last night in order to keep them from me as much as he could.

Seeking the jewels, however, must wait for another time. The most important mission now is to find some form of protection that will keep the Queen safe from Lamashtu while we are unable to enter her presence. Wolsey knows of several possible options - and I shall need to discuss them with him once I am in the Library.

Goodwife Dawson, as always, offers me beer and bread before I begin my perusal of the library, which is most welcome. I do not linger over my cup, however, for time is short. Cromwell has advised Wriothesley that I am ill, so any who are seeking me will be advised that I am hiding in my apartments with some ghastly flux or other. I have until the end of the afternoon to find something, as it would be our preference to establish some protection before Beauchamp takes up his evening watch. I have no doubt that we shall not be able to drug his wine again.

I am not surprised that Wolsey is waiting for me when I enter the library.

_Where have you been? Now is not the time for stuffing your face. We have work to do_.

"I am here, now, Eminence. What do you suggest I look for?"

_From my recollection, there is something in record DCLXXII, an artefact in the black dresser, and a collection in the packet under record MMMII_

Thank God for his encyclopaedic knowledge. I would never have been able to recall such information: perhaps it is something he can do now that he is dead. In less than ten minutes, I have assembled the various items and set them out in the chamber above: three papers which look to be spells of some sort, which makes me most nervous, a locket which is claimed to hold a saint's relic, and what is, apparently, a blessing - as my Latin has recovered to a point that I am as proficient in it as I was when I studied it.

"I have them, Eminence. What would you recommend?" I have no idea which would suit best.

_For God's sake, Rich - use your head! Isn't that why the Raven chose you? I was not aware that I was meant to do all for you instead of your doing it yourself. What do_ you _think you should use?_

Embarrassed, I sit down and look through the various items, "I have no idea whether spells would be of use - as I suspect one with talent for doing so would be best placed to speak them." Besides, the thought of using witchcraft in the presence of the Queen is a point beyond which I have no wish, or intention, to go. She would not countenance the idea, either, "Even if her Majesty was to accept protection of this nature, I have no doubt that we would need someone to come here to speak them. I do not know of any witches, of any kind." I have no idea if Wolsey could hear my thoughts, so I speak aloud.

Then I reach for the locket. Until I came across the Rosary, I set no store whatsoever in relics, or the veneration of them. While I have no particular convictions in terms of faith, which is why I find Cromwell's absolute loathing of Catholic ceremony and symbolism rather irritating, I have always struggled with the suggestion that a physical object could confer holy powers purely because it was once held by, used by, worn by or even was a piece of a saint. Tentatively, I open the locket and promptly drop it in disgust at the sight of the finger-bone within. How could anyone revere a disembodied finger, for Christ's sake? Apart from anything else, how can I even be sure that the finger even belonged to a saint at all? I am sure I once heard someone say that, if all the pieces of the 'true cross' that were held in Christendom were brought together, there would be enough wood to build a house. No. This shall not do either. No matter how devout, Queen Jane would almost certainly baulk at the prospect of wearing a finger about her neck: saint or no.

I then turn to the only remaining option - the blessing. With more time, and light, to read the words, I feel more comfortable with what I have in my hands, and carefully translate it aloud, "In the name of God, the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, sleep safe, mother. Sleep well for none shall harm you or your babe. As the Christ child lay in the manger, so shall your little one lie safe in your womb, and in his crib."

It could not be more suitable, "We can use this, Eminence."

_We cannot. Well,_ you _cannot._

"What?" This, I do not need to hear, "Why can we not use it?"

_It must be spoken by one ordained. When did you take the cloth, Richard?_

So we must persuade a priest to do it. Who can we ask? Cranmer would happily volunteer, for he is Cromwell's friend - but he is in Canterbury. The only other person who could is Gardiner - and he would rather throw us on a pyre…

"Did your ordained status cease when you died, Eminence?" I ask, suddenly. Who else could we possibly use?

_Of course not. How do you think it was possible for me to speak the Grace through you when you dropped it?_

As if I needed to be reminded of that.

"Then that is how we do it. You can speak the blessing through me. It worked in the Tiltyard, did it not? You are ordained - so even though I am not, your words should win the day?"

He is silent for a moment, and I hope I have not offended him with some rank stupidity of which I am not aware.

_Well thought out, Richard. An excellent plan - as long as you do not tell the Raven of the fact that only one ordained may speak the blessing, for he should not know. You must ensure that you, and you alone, stand to speak the blessing - and I shall speak it through you._

I have no idea of the time, but the sun is still quite high, so it is not likely to be much later than mid-afternoon. If I leave now, I can be back at the Palace in barely an hour, two at the most. All we need to do then is find a way to distract Thomas Seymour, and the Queen shall be protected.

By the time I reach the mews, and hand Adrian over to a groom, the Palace clock shows a quarter hour past four. Beauchamp will not relieve his brother until seven, so we have a good two hours to find a window of opportunity. Feeling inordinately pleased with myself, I hasten through to the palace, only to find my way blocked by several men in Beauchamp livery.

"There you are." One of them drawls, "Been looking all over for you, we 'ave."

"And you've found me." I snap back, "What do you want?"

One of them peels away and heads back into the Palace, "S'not what we wants, my Lord," the speaker continues, "S'what his Grace wants."

Two of the group are quickly either side of me, and I am forcibly propelled forward. Oddly, my only thought is - of all the times to have to do this, why _now_? No one ever seems to want to waylay me when I have plenty of time to spare. I find this thought distracting from what might otherwise be apprehension, though it doesn't take long for that to establish itself once we reach the intended destination - a quiet storehouse well away from the more populated areas of the palace.

We are obliged to wait for a while, which does absolutely nothing for my bravado, until Beauchamp arrives. He is scowling, and I can guess what his first comment is likely to be.

"I suppose you find interfering with my protective measures for my sister to be amusing?"

I wish that I could tell him that _his_ protective measures are interfering with _ours_ , but instead I stay silent. There isn't anything much I can say that is going to soothe his temper, and I suspect even keeping quiet is likely to inflame it. I just hope that this isn't going to take too long.

"I do not appreciate your attempts to make a fool of me, Rich. Is Cromwell behind this? I have no doubt that he envies my ascendancy. As much as you do, I suspect?"

I sigh: best to bite the bullet, "Your Grace - I appreciate that I was ill mannered when you spoke to me at Placentia. I was over-tired and was not thinking wisely. I can but offer you my sincerest apologies for the incident; and I can guarantee that it shall not happen again."

He clutches a fistful of my doublet, "And what of last night? Drugging my wine?"

"I did not drug your wine." I say. It is hardly a lie: Wyatt did.

"I intend to make certain that none of you come near my Sister again - and with that in mind, I have set Lady Rochford to keep watch and report any attempts you or Cromwell make to approach the Queen again. As for the wine, you were involved, Rich. I am certain of it - and I consider that to be another insult on your part. Therefore, I mean to take steps to recoup payment for your lack of manners." He releases my doublet and steps back, before making a gesture that appears to indicate consent.

Any thought that he is gesturing to his retainers to release me vanishes at once as one of them steps forward and rams a fist violently into my midriff. Fortunately, despite the warmth of the day, my doublet is rather well padded, and absorbs much of the blow, but it still squashes the air out of me, and I drop, winded, to the ground. Matters are not improved when the fist is followed by a boot that kicks me solidly in the ribs, lifting me up and tossing me onto my side. For a few ghastly moments, I find that I cannot seem to breathe, and I fight to get air back into my lungs as the bulkiest of the group of men grasps handfuls of my doublet and pulls me back up to my feet again. "Don't think this is over, _my Lord_." He whispers, before letting go with one hand and hammering his bunched fist into my face - sending me toppling backwards into the brick wall. I almost ricochet from the bricks and flop to the ground again, but they are departing, and laughing amongst themselves.

I need a while to recover my equilibrium, as my heart is racing somewhat after my breathing was so affected. I shall probably have a magnificent bruise over my ribs from where I was kicked, and doubtless someone will spread rumours about the tender spot on my cheekbone. Possibly something relating to an irked mistress, as it would not be the first time. The fact that no one has seen me with any woman in over a year would have no impact upon the palace rumour-mill; but it could be worse, I suppose. At least no one has stuck a knife in me this time.

As soon as my breathing has settled, I get up and hurry off to Cromwell's apartments. I dare not go to the offices, as I am supposed to be ill, but William offers me a restoring cup of sack, and a cold compress for my reddened cheek while I await his master's return. As I sit, holding the damp cloth to my face, he scribbles a short missive, and stops a passing steward to ask him to deliver it to the Lord Chancellor.

Cromwell arrives within a quarter of an hour, and is most displeased to discover that Beauchamp's men have beaten me. There is little that we can do to answer it, however, so instead he asks me what I have found to help the Queen. Fortunately, Wyatt is not far behind, as word of the assault has reached him through his network of friends. I can only hope that such rumours do not make it back to Wriothesley - it may be none of his business what I do with my time, but I get enough chilly looks from him as it is.

"I've found a blessing, Thomas." I report, "What's more, it seems to be ideal for our requirements, as it places protection upon both a mother and her babe. If we can get into the Queen's apartments, it will be a simple matter to speak the blessing, and depart again without any knowing of our presence."

"The Queen will be watched much more closely now, though." Wyatt warns.

"So Beauchamp told me." I advise, a little smugly, "He has selected someone he considers to be absolutely unimpeachable in terms of loyalty."

"Oh, he hasn't…" Wyatt is grinning now.

"He has." I grin back.

Cromwell rolls his eyes, "When the two of you have finished congratulating yourselves, let us see if we can perform this blessing - then we can be certain that her Majesty is safe, and we can continue hunting raveners in peace."

We depart at once, walking together as though we were heading out to one of the lesser kitchens in search of ale. As we go Wyatt regales us with the most trivial court gossip he can manage. As we make our way down a corridor, Jonathan, the Queen's page, approaches us and hands Wyatt a slip of paper as he passes. It is, to be fair, done very smoothly, and none would have noticed it. Equally smoothly, Wyatt pretends that he has pulled the paper from his scrip, and unfurls it.

"Two words: 'come now', the initials 'J' and 'R', and a pair of wings." He murmurs. A message from Lady Rochford, then. Her initials and the Queen's sigil - two gull's wings. Seymour must have left the presence chamber - but for how long? Fortunately we are no more than two corridors distant, and Lady Rochford hastily grants us entry. Jane has sent her ladies away for the moment, and there is no sign of Seymour.

"Where's he gone?" Wyatt asks, curious.

"The jakes." Lady Rochford grins, "He may be some time. I think his dinner was slightly tainted; poor man."

"You are a true heroine, my Lady." Wyatt says, bowing to her floridly.

"Leave this to me." I advise, stepping forward to where the Queen is sitting in her chair. I bow, and she nods, permitting me to speak, "I have found something that shall offer you protection, Majesty. It's a blessing, and thus it should easily keep Lamashtu's malevolence at bay."

"Thank you, Sir Richard." She smiles, "Am I required to do anything?"

"No Majesty." Only I need to make any preparations, and I bow my head. Wolsey needs no prompting and, again, I feel my awareness being separated from myself as he takes control of my body. It is not uncomfortable, but it is still rather unnerving to be fully aware, yet not in control. The blessing must, however, be spoken by one ordained, and I am not. It is Wolsey, or no one.

" _In nomine Dei Patris, Filii, et Spiritus sancti, tuto dormire mater. Somnus, nam non noceat aut infantem. Ut Christum Fílium positum in praesepio, ut possim vestros probare parvulus in utero iacere tuta et in cunis. Amen._ "

Again, I feel my mouth moving, and I can hear the words that issue from it. It even _sounds_ like my voice - but it is not. No one around me has any idea that the words are being spoken by a dead Cardinal, and I don't like to imagine how Cromwell would feel if he knew. But he does not, and I have no intention of his finding out unless it is essential that he know it.

Wolsey is not long in departing from me when all is done, and I feel his sense of satisfaction as he goes. As far as he is concerned, the blessing is in place, and the Queen is now protected. While there is no harm, and I know he does not mean me ill, I still feel a vague sense of unease at being open to another in such a fashion. I can only hope that he cannot approach me in such a manner uninvited - God alone knows what would happen if he could. After all, if he could; might not something else?

_Do not be concerned, Second._ His voice assures me, with mild amusement, _My use of your mortal soul is at your invitation alone. I could not do so if you did not permit it. You are no more vulnerable to a possessive incursion than any other mortal man._

Then he is gone. Reassured by his words, I bow again, then step back to rejoin Cromwell and Wyatt, and we bow together. We dare not stay any longer, as there is no guarantee that Beauchamp might have heard of his brother's unfortunate indisposition, and even now be hastening to his sister's chambers to ensure that we are kept out.

His attempts at protection may be ineffective - but ours shall not be. For the moment, at least, Queen Jane shall be safe.


	15. A Hot Summer in More Ways than One

Now that we know the Queen is protected - for Wolsey assures it to be true, and I believe him - we are under far less pressure than before, and the presence of Beauchamp and Seymour is less irksome than it was. Thanks to Lady Rochford and Jonathan, we are able to maintain contact with her Majesty, albeit through the medium of notes, and we are able to concentrate on the plague of raveners that seems to continue unabated.

As the spring passes into summer, and the Queen's pregnancy is starting to show, hopes are high that all shall be well, with the physicians pronouncing that she is positively blooming; while some, who are fool enough to consult such people, suggest that astrologers are predicting a boy. As they predicted that the Lady Elizabeth would be a boy, I prefer not to set too much store in the powers of astrology. It seems also that the Queen does not, as she has not undertaken such consultations herself.

With the approach of the summer, Parliament rises, and our workload drops in response. That is not to say that we are not busy - far from it - but it places less pressure upon us to be absolutely diligent in our proofreading, and leaves us free to take stock of the day to day running of the Court, which seems to end up being set aside when larger scale lawmaking is in progress.

Despite the Seymour brothers keeping her on a tight rein, the Queen is to be seen frequently, taking the air with her ladies, mingling in the Hall and presence chambers, and seems magnificently unconcerned that the King is philandering again. Perhaps he feels the need to prove that he is till fecund, though why he needs to do this quite so regularly with women to whom he is not married, I have no idea. Not that I am one to talk - having had several mistresses myself in previous years.

The King's leg is also giving cause for concern; having become ever more troublesome since the middle of May. In some ways, I am most grateful not to be a member of the Privy Council, for I am told by those who are obliged to sit through the meetings must endure the reek of suppurating flesh and pus that exudes from the ulcerated wound, and it can become extremely unpleasant. Such is his discomfort that he has already broken the nose of one of his pageboys, who was doing nothing more offensive than pouring out hot water for him to wash his hands. As we come to the end of June, however, the temperature soars, and with it, so does the volatility of the King's temper.

As there are no bills to be discussed, I am not required to present myself at Council meetings, but I am not surprised to overhear that the King has slapped Cromwell again - in front of all the assembled lords. As he never mentions such assaults, it is only through gossip that I know such things happen, but it seems that his crime was to not be able to answer a question that he would never have been able to answer without having researched first anyway, as it was wholly unrelated to anything that was meant to be discussed at the meeting. Needless to say, the assembled Lords were most amused at the incident.

Things seem to deteriorate over the course of the day, as it appears that no one is immune from his Majesty's anger. He is limping heavily as he enters the Presence Chamber, a sure sign that there shall be trouble, as he is normally able to conceal the pain it brings him. We all bow, as is expected, before people begin to mingle, while those who wish to speak to the King are able to do so.

"For Christ's sake, Seymour! Can you not keep your braying voice lower than a scream?"

Everyone turns in surprise. Thomas Seymour is bowing deeply in apology, though I had heard nothing, and certainly there was no suggestion that his conversation with Sir Francis Bryan was overly loud. It seems that even imagined slights are going to be punished today, so I decide to find somewhere else to be. I am not a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, so I do not need to be present, unlike Seymour.

As I turn to leave, I note that Cromwell is in discussions with Eustace Chapuys. When he is not being an ambassador, or being political, Chapuys is a genial and enjoyable man to talk to, and it seems that both he and Cromwell have found a topic of discussion that does not stir any unfortunate sentiments. It turns out that they are discussing the music that is being played in the outer chamber - I had no idea that Cromwell knew anything about music, as I most certainly do not.

"A strategic withdrawal, Sir Richard?" Chapuys asks, knowingly; he has borne the brunt of the King's temper himself, so he knows how humiliating it can be when Henry is in the hottest of his rages.

"I fear so, your Excellency." I admit, "Besides, the atmosphere is rather thick. I am thinking of taking a stroll through the gardens in search of some air." It seems a sensible thing to do, as the heat in the chamber is starting to make me feel a little faint - largely my own fault, as my simarre is heavy with fur - and it would be nice to clear my head outside.

"If you would not object to some company, I think that would be an excellent idea." Chapuys agrees, mopping at his rather damp brow with a kerchief, "Perhaps you would wish to join us, my Lord Chancellor? I think our criticism of this composition could continue adequately even if we are no longer present to hear it."

Cromwell has no opportunity to reply; there is the sound of thumping footsteps behind us, and suddenly my arm is grabbed with startling force, propelling me into the wall, "What are you conspiring about?" The King demands, furiously, spittle leaping from his lips into my face, "I will not be talked about in my own Court!" he has me by the collar of my simarre, and shakes me like a rat, "God help me, I am surrounded by liars and conspirators!"

I have never, at any time, been the sole focus of the King's greatest rages; but I am sure that the expressions on people's faces merely reflect my own - for everyone is terrified, as much as I. Now that I am in close proximity, however, the reek of his ulcer is almost overpowering, and I know the real cause of his fury. I am merely the unfortunate recipient of it. I just hope that he does not strike me. He says nothing more, but shoves me back into the wall again, for good measure, before limping out of the Hall.

The entire hall is silent for a few moments, and Chapuys looks shocked - after all, he had discussed nothing more than the quality of the music being played. Cromwell, however, remains calm, "As you were saying, Excellency, I think our continued discussion of Mr Tye's Air would be more pleasant outside where the air is cooler. Shall we depart?" He looks at me a little more pointedly, his query over my welfare unspoken, and I nod, a little shaken, but otherwise unhurt.

Once outside, the air is, as I hoped, fresher - though not by as much as one would wish. Chapuys accepts the King's outburst with aplomb, and the conversation between Cromwell and he does indeed continue to discuss the Air by Christopher Tye. I just wish I could contribute to it: about all I can add is that it sounded nice.

The sun is setting in a blaze of reds and oranges as we depart the gardens. It is rare to have the opportunity to just enjoy socialising with others at Court, and something that I had never really permitted myself to do. If there were no politics, no diplomacy, no stupid posturing of Kings over trifles that are magnified into deadly insults, then how much better would it be? Chapuys is excellent company, and it is a shame that we cannot enjoy his conversation in such an informal fashion more often. As it is, I have spent an enjoyable hour or so in good company, and the problems that beset us have been set aside for a while. It is, in such a febrile atmosphere, about as much as one can hope for.

It is only as we return to the palace to see stewards running about wildly that we discover things have not been so pleasant inside as out. Suffolk is hurrying down a corridor, but consents to stop and apprise us of matters: "His Majesty's leg has become congested again," He advises, "But before he collapsed with it, he severely beat one of his grooms. The boy is still unconscious. God help us, I thought that this might all be in the past." He genuflects - a minimal movement of his hands that is reverent, and quite unique to him as he uses it when others cross themselves, nods to us politely, and hastens on to the King's apartments.

"That would appear to explain his Majesty's violent behaviour to you this evening, I think; Sir Richard." Chapuys says, suddenly sounding very tired. I nod in agreement - the stink of his leg had been evidence enough for me. We bow to one another, and he departs. Cromwell turns to me, "I am not sure if I am required in the King's Chamber, but I had best be prepared. I shall meet you as soon as I may after darkness has fallen. Come to the base of the Clock at each hour, and I shall meet you there. If I have not joined you by eleven, then I shall not do so - and it is best that you both retire."

Wyatt and I meet at my apartments, and I am glad to abandon the hideously over-warm simarre. As always, we are in black, though I have left the jerkin behind, and my doublet is open at the throat in hopes of combating the sultry night air. Now that the nights are shorter, we seem to see fewer raveners about the court; perhaps Lamashtu is finding that their presence is not as great a problem to us as she had hoped - and certainly there is no need to distract us now that the Queen is protected by the blessing. For the first time in months, our hunt is fruitless; and, as we return to the Clock as it strikes eleven with no sign of Cromwell waiting for us, we give up for the night.

* * *

There is no letup in the weather - the sun shines, the heat builds and is now settled over the city like a thick, cloying blanket that cannot be thrown off. People spend as much time as they can in the gardens in defiance of the encroaching reek of the river, as the playing fountains seem to help to cool the air a little; but otherwise, the atmosphere remains oppressive, even more so when one is in the presence of the King. His leg has eased again, though it is not healing, and still reeks in the enclosed space of the council chamber. People walk about as quietly as mice, for fear of inciting the King to a rage, and even the Queen seems not to be able to salve his moods; he has shown no interest in her expanding belly for nearly a week now, and instead seems almost morbidly intent upon another mistress that he has found. Not that this has eased his temper, as three more of his personal servants have been obliged to see the physicians after he has assaulted them.

Now and again, raveners appear, so we are still obliged to hunt each night. The numbers are receding, certainly, but we cannot risk leaving the corridors unpatrolled, so the hunts continue. We are all sleeping badly in the heat, so tempers are fraying in the offices too, and I have embarrassed myself by engaging in a furious argument with Wriothesley over, of all things, the consistency of the ink, as the heat is making it too thick for my preference.

Then, as we enter the last week of July, the skies finally start to darken like a bruise over gardens that are now parched and brown. As the afternoon's Council meeting will involve some legal discussion, I have been brought in to advise on the clauses if required, so I am clad over-warmly as everyone else, and trapped in a confined space with ten overheated men and a King with a stinking leg ulcer. I am sure I am not the only one who feels rather sick.

It seems, however, that we are not to discuss the matters planned for the day. Instead, the King limps around the table to its head, and stands over us as we bow. His expression is murderous, and in an instant, everyone present becomes noticeably more tense. He looks up, and speaks, his voice low, "Mr Cromwell."

"Majesty." Cromwell acknowledges, his voice even despite everything. I am not sure I could sound so calm. Unfortunately, it seems that even his courtesy is enough to trigger the explosion that we all know is coming. And it does. Henry slams his fists down upon the table, making us all jump, and launches into a raging tirade that touches upon treason, conspiracy, illegal behaviours of all kinds and God knows what else. As the only commoner at the table, Cromwell is inevitably going to bear the brunt of it, as even in his most violent rages, the King will not normally turn upon any of the Nobles. My paltry Knighthood protects me, just. It was only because his ulcer was blocked that he lost his temper and set upon me in the Hall - but here he has another focus, and I am irrelevant in comparison. Limping around the table again with surprising speed, he grabs Cromwell's simarre, wrenches him out of his chair and shoves him back into the wall, pinning him to the panelling and screaming directly into his face. Despite his calm demeanour, the colour has drained from Cromwell's complexion, and it is only his ability to remain completely still and impassive that is keeping down the look of panic that is otherwise reflected on the faces of the servants present. The King insists that Cromwell is a traitor, a knave and a vile enemy of the State - though he seems not to provide examples of such conduct, instead repeating himself over and over again.

We know that it's all down to the heat - and his leg, which is still reeking, but his rage is so savage, that I cannot help but wonder if he might even draw his dagger. It would not be the first time that he has threatened his Lord Chancellor at knifepoint.

After several minutes of this, which I note that many of the Lords are quite enjoying, Suffolk attempts to intervene, "Majesty, perhaps it is best if you sit down - take a drink of hippocras, or perhaps some cordial?"

"Do not even think to offer me anything, Charles!" Henry screams at him, "For you are no better than this vile miscreant! None of you are!" Finally, he releases Cromwell and turns to face the rest of us, "All of you are traitors, set against me in your plotting and planning! I shall see each and every one of you hang!" Then he turns and limps out as fast has he can.

We sit in stunned silence; punctuated by a long-overdue, and most welcome, rumble of thunder.

* * *

We have enjoyed, rather than endured, three days of rain since the storm broke, and no one has yet tired of the novelty. Doubtless, it shall not last. The most welcome outcome of that storm, however, is the reduction in the oppressive heat that held us in its grip for so long. It seems to have eased the King's temper to an equal degree, and there have been no more incidents in the Council chamber, his apartments or his presence chamber. Needless to say, he has not apologised for his dreadful outburst in the Council chamber; but then no one expects him to. Certainly, Cromwell has not mentioned it again since it happened - but then he never does.

The nights still require us to hunt, and we return wet with rain rather than damp with sweat. The number of raveners is generally stable, though there are occasional leaps in numbers - perhaps in hope of catching us unaware. Cromwell, however, does not allow the lack of raveners to drop his guard. As the days are longer, and the temperatures have reduced, he has restarted our training bouts. When he fights me now, he does so at his full strength and speed, which inevitably leaves me with bruises. I am, however, becoming quicker, and my defences are improving - though I could never hope to match his sheer agility. No matter how determinedly I try to get through his defences, he can always evade me. The one attempt I made to emulate one of his leaps led to my sprawling upon the grass of the Tiltyard with a sprained ankle - my face mere inches from a rather large pile of manure from the horses that had been ridden there the previous day, so I have not attempted to do so again.

The Queen is now halfway through her pregnancy, and is still blooming. Now that his temper has settled, the King is showing her the deference and love she deserves. The mistress has been married to a compliant courtier, and he has not taken another yet. In honour of her continued health, he declares a week's holiday for the Court, and thus we are free to enjoy days out of the office for the first time since Christmastide.

I should, I think, return to Grant's Place to review my Library - but Cromwell asks me not to, "I think that it is more important that you stay, Richie." He advises, "The rest and recuperation shall do us all good."

I have no intention of arguing - he is right about my needing rest.

We sup together in his apartments again, despite there being a large feast in the Hall. So busy is the event, and so illustrious the guests, that our lowly presences shall not be missed. The fare is excellent, and we sup well, before we seat ourselves around the light of a small fire with cups of hippocras. I note, however, that Cromwell has not changed into his hunting clothes, "Are we not to hunt tonight, then Thomas?"

He shakes his head, "There is something else I wish to do tonight, Richie. We can hunt tomorrow - and I think, when tonight is done, I shall be hard put to persuade the pair of you not to." Indicating that we stay in our seats, he rises, and goes through to his bedchamber, before returning with a large bundle that he sets upon the table amidst the remains of our supper.

"It is most unusual for a Silver Sword to have his Second, or in our case _Seconds_ , fight alongside him; but our case is unique, I think. With that in mind, I feel it is essential that you are appropriately armed to do so."

With great care, he unwraps the bundle and lifts something, "Tom - this is for you. Look after it well, and it shall look after you." As he approaches, I realise that it is a sword - the same design as his own - nestling in a black scabbard trimmed with silver, "I could not use the sword smith that makes the blades of a Silver Sword, for I have not asked the High if I could do this. This is made by another smith - but he is almost the equal of ours." He hands it to Wyatt, who takes it, his eyes wide.

"Thank you Thomas," he breathes, his eyes now focused on the weapon. Drawing it, he examines its perfection. It is steel, but the very edge is girded by bands of silver inlay that stretch the length of the blade. The presence of silver is all that is required to destroy a demonic being - and he now has the means to do so alongside the knife he already has, "It is truly magnificent."

"It certainly is." I smile at him, raising my cup, "And well deserved."

"You have not seen yours yet, Richie." Cromwell advises, returning to the table. I turn to him, surprised - I have one? But I have the poniard…I was not expecting to receive one as well. Wyatt is, to a significant degree, a fellow warrior and thus merits a weapon of such stature; I am a Second - the researcher, the support and the book-man - not a warrior, and certainly no Silver Sword.

Gently, he lifts a second scabbarded weapon from the bundle of cloth, and presents it to me, "This has not come from Spain, Richie. Our blades are based upon those wielded by the descendants of the Scythians - and this is from their lands. It was forged for a warlord, and I am told that it has seen many battles."

Despite myself, I find that I am as excited to receive such a gift as a child at Christmastide. My hands are shaking so much I can barely take it; and I am most nervous as I draw it.

"My God…" Wyatt whispers, and I would say much the same if I could speak. The blade is extraordinary, a banded pattern of silver that traverses sinuously throughout the steel like a shot silk, while chased foliage extends from the hilt to a third of the way down the blade. The hilt itself is wrapped with black leather, and the pommel is shaped like a stylised bird's head. I am embarrassed to find there is a lump in my throat.

I try to speak, fail, clear my throat, and try again, "I cannot accept this, Thomas - I don't have the skill to use it."

"You do, Richie. You have proved it to me over the last few days in the tiltyard. The risk England faces is greater than that of any other nation, as well you know. I cannot face it alone - we have seen that for ourselves. If I am to face it with the two of you, then you deserve to be as well armed as I. The risks we have faced this summer with the raveners that have infested the court shows that you need to be armed entirely with silver weapons." He pauses, then continues, "Besides, Wolsey told me that you must have it."

"He did?" I stare at him, bemused, "Why?"

Cromwell shrugs, and smiles, "He did not say."

In that case, I shall ask him myself; but Cromwell does not need to know that.

As Cromwell predicted, both Wyatt and I are quite eager to go and seek out raveners to try our new swords - but he shakes his head, "Tomorrow, I think. You are both going to be far too hot blooded with those blades in your hands, and I would not wish to see either of you embarrassed or hurt as a consequence. Rest tonight: you can play with your new toys tomorrow evening."

When I return to my own apartments, I seat myself by the fire and draw the sword again, to examine it more closely. For an antique weapon, it is in extraordinarily good condition, and I wonder how it has survived so well if it has seen battle. I do not need to frame the questions in my mind, for Wolsey's voice emerges out of the silence unprompted.

_It is known as Damascus steel, though the true steel did not incorporate silver as this blade does. The techniques that were used to forge it have been forgotten, Richard. Its durability is almost legendary, I'm told._

I look up, "Why has it been given to me, Eminence?"

_I did not tell Thomas. Neither can I tell you. There is no secret that I am keeping - I simply do not know the answer myself, for Cassandra did not tell me. I believe it was always intended for the Second of the Raven in order to defend this realm, but Cassandra assumed that it would be mine, so she must have planned to tell me of it when I received it. Unfortunately, I did not receive it - you did._

"Can you not ask her?"

_Alas, no. She is no longer able to communicate with me, as the realm she occupies is not the same as mine. She was not obliged to enter Purgatory as I was._

Oh, well. I suppose I shall find out eventually: probably several days beyond much too late. That seems to be the usual pattern in all that I do as a Second. Returning the blade to its sheath, I set it carefully in a coffer. Then I take Cromwell's advice, and take to my bed.

* * *

"Strike with the left, and now the right. Harder! And again!" Wyatt is not letting up, and I continue to punch at the hanging bag of sawdust that he is holding steady for me. After yet another run-in with Beauchamp's retainers, who seem now to be operating on their own initiative as even the Viscount is bored of this intimidation nonsense, I have decided enough is enough; and Wyatt has agreed to teach me to fight with my fists.

Our battles against raveners are now routs, as both Wyatt's blade and mine serve as well as Cromwell's swords do in terms of reducing the demons to ashes. My agility is still dreadful, but now that both of my blades are silver, I find myself more able to avoid being caught by surprise. In some ways, Wyatt and I are almost competing with each other, and Cromwell has threatened to make us keep notebooks to tally the kills, which serves to show us that we are being terribly childish.

I cannot, however, use the blades against the infuriating men who just will not leave me be. Having received something akin to an official sanction to knock me about, they are quite keen to do so at every opportunity, and I am becoming very tired of the inconvenience of having to avoid them. Now that I am much better acquainted with the lesser known passageways of the palace, thanks to the hunting I have been doing, this is not as difficult as it might first seem - but it is still tiresome.

Being used to the rigours of training, thanks to all the sparring I have done over the last year, I find myself becoming fairly proficient more quickly than I expected, which is just as well, as, one August afternoon, my luck in avoiding the two largest of Beauchamp's men finally eludes me.

"Good at hiding, you are, M'Lord." The taller one drawls with his tiresomely lazy accent, "Beginning to think you was yeller, you was."

I think he is accusing me of cowardice; or at least that seems to be what he has just said. Rather than offer a riposte, which I suspect will just lead to more gloating in dreadfully mangled English, I let him continue. He seems quite put out at my failure to reply to him, so instead he moves to strike me. As his fist heads straight towards my middle again, I shift aside, and he finds himself making contact with bricks rather than my doublet. Not wishing to waste the move, I elbow the other of the two in the face as hard as I can, hearing his nose crunch rather satisfyingly between the howls of pain from his cohort, who is now nursing burst knuckles.

While the one with the broken nose seems most disinclined to take matters further, the taller of the two is not keen to back down, and he is facing me again with a look of real fury. This time, I take the initiative, and hurl a bunched fist straight into his chin. It has two immediate outcomes: The man's eyes glaze, and he drops, while I scream out at the pain in my hand. Not having struck anything harder than the bag before, I was not prepared for the hardness of his chin - for some reason I had forgotten that chins are made of bone - and now it feels as though I have broken at least one bone of my own; possibly more.

Leaving the pair of them where they are, I take myself back to my Quarters, nursing my hand and cursing my stupidity - I have managed to cripple both my writing and sword hand in a single blow; or, at least, it certainly feels as though I have.

John, however, is philosophical, "I think it is but bruised, my Lord." He advises, sagely, as he applies a cold compress, "It shall hurt for a while, but there is no long lasting damage. I have struck enough chins in my time, so I do not think you have broken anything."

I am not looking forward to telling Cromwell. Either he shall be unimpressed, or he shall laugh, and I am not sure which I dread more.

In the event, however, there are more important things to consider than my foolish punch. Cromwell and Wriothesley are deep in urgent conversation, and the clerks are hovering nervously. While I cannot say for certain what the problem might be, I can guess; and Cromwell's announcement proves me right.

"Gentlemen, there are reports of Plague in the city, and we are to remove at the earliest opportunity. While we have more time than we did to leave Placentia, time is still limited and Mr Wriothesley shall advise you which papers you are to organise for packing up to accompany us, and which are to be archived and retained here. Sir Richard, I shall liaise with the Household department over our storage and office accommodation. I think it is my turn, is it not?"

Thank God for that. The last thing I need is to annoy another touchy noble who seems to believe I am an appropriate individual to complain at over where he shall be laying his head when we move, "Where are we to go?" I ask, hoping to God that it's Placentia, even though I know full well that it shall not be.

"Hampton Court." Cromwell sighs.

Blast.

I dispatch a steward to advise John that we are to move, and that he should begin packing up my belongings at the first opportunity. There is nothing at Grant's Place that cannot stay there - though I should dearly like to be able to pack up the Library, as I shall no longer have any opportunity to visit without careful planning beforehand. Even on horseback, the journey takes a good five hours. I also cannot rely upon Wolsey to act as a messenger between myself and Molly - for she is not a full Second, so he cannot speak to her. I make a note to myself to advise Dickon to obtain pigeons; while I am sure that Wyatt was probably jesting when he suggested we use birds, I consider it to be a worthwhile means to try. Dickon can then deliver some of the birds to me once I am at Hampton. I can, at least, rely upon Wolsey's memory, and send records references to Molly. It is not ideal, but it is certainly better than nothing.

We sup in Cromwell's apartments again, and Wyatt is as tense as I, "What are we to do? Why could we not go to Hatfield? Or even Knole? We shall be right on her bloody doorstep!"

"You know why not, Tom. There are too many people for anywhere else - and besides, it's the King's preferred palace to spend the summer, and his closest favourite after Placentia: where else would he want his son to be born if he cannot be at Greenwich?" I tell him, rather glumly, "That it places us so close to the Queen's deadliest enemy is of no consequence."

"We must place our trust in the blessing, and God's protection." Cromwell advises, quietly, "It has kept her safe from Lamashtu's malevolence thus far, and, should the demoness come herself, we shall stand against her as best we can. It is quite possible that the blessing shall also repel her in person. Whatever we wish for is of little use to anyone - we must make the best of the situation as we find it, and do all that we can to protect the Queen."

"At least we shall leave the raveners behind." I add.

"I suppose that is one good thing." Wyatt agrees.

My own plans remain the same. I cannot consider destroying Lamashtu _and_ protecting the Queen - not now that I am to be based so far from the Library. There is much that remains uncatalogued, and I shall have to do the work myself, for I cannot expect Molly to do it - if anyone is to err and endure the pain of the consequences, it should be me, not my apprentice. Thus, I shall concentrate my efforts upon Queen Jane. Once her babe is born, then I can set to work on finding Blue Fire and Red Fire.

I just hope that we can keep our promise - and keep her safe.


	16. The Inconvenience of Being Male

It feels strange to be back at Hampton Court again. This was, after all, where it all began. We are back in the office chambers where I hid in the dark and watched a man limping towards the desk at which Cromwell now sits, busy with work, and my life changed forever.

I am, however, not sitting at the same desk I occupied then. Instead, my papers have been laid out at a larger desk nearer to the Lord Chancellor, which is set into an alcove. Surrounded by shelves, it feels almost as though I have a separate office of my own. That said, my apartments are singularly disappointing after the luxury at Whitehall; I can no longer look out at gardens, and instead enjoy the more familiar view of blank bricks over a narrow passageway.

My fight with Beauchamp's retainers has also had a beneficial outcome, in that they now avoid me, rather than the other way about. Even Beauchamp is less dismissive of me - though my recent appointment to the Privy Council possibly has something to do with that.

As we expected, the raveners that were infesting Whitehall have not followed us. They seem to be monumentally unintelligent creatures, and as we have moved some ten miles away, it is likely to take them even longer than previously to track us down - even with Lamashtu driving them. She can force them to act against their natures - but not, it seems, think for them. As we are no longer required to hunt, Cromwell expects Wyatt and I to be spending time becoming more familiar with the swords he has given us, and I have no objection to doing so. It is, in all honesty, one of the most extraordinary weapons I have ever seen - and that it now belongs to me is still a novelty. I know so little about it, as it is not a new blade, and even Wolsey cannot tell me any more than that which he spoke of when first I asked him about it. It makes my altogether narrower ceremonial sword seem almost like a knitting needle in comparison. The fact that Wyatt is almost as silly over his new blade as I am over mine gives Cromwell much amusement - we are like children with new toys.

Queen Jane has reached that point in her pregnancy when the child stops giving, and starts to take, instead. Where before she was blooming, she now looks tired and worn out. The women's gossip suggests nothing of a worrisome nature - it is merely that the child is now moving about, kicking and squirming inside her womb - which keeps her awake at night, causes her discomfort during the day, and must be most unpleasant. I can only imagine that she looks forward to her coming confinement with increasing fervour as each day passes.

Perhaps inevitably, the King has sought entertainment elsewhere again, and has another mistress. As always, The Queen accepts, and does not question his infidelity; though Lady Rochford is most aggrieved on her behalf - a source of much amusement about the Court.

My greatest frustration now is the distance between me and my library. The lack of business is leaving me with ample time to spend perusing the contents - but I cannot do so, for the contents is ten miles away. Short of being able to fly, or to will myself there, I am effectively barred from Grant's Place - even more so now that I am obliged to attend all meetings of the Council.

Cromwell understands my annoyance, and we spend a great deal of time at the Tiltyard in the mists of early morning, as he shows me some of the more complicated moves that can be made with the swords we carry. While I am more than capable with the blade nowadays, I am still far too clumsy to match his sheer agility, so I content myself with working upon my speed and accuracy instead - an exercise which involves Cromwell throwing apples at me. The fruits he uses are from last year's crop, as the new crop shall soon be ready for picking. Unlike mine, his aim is excellent, and I must react quickly to cut them from the air before they hit me - for hit me they shall if I do not.

It seems almost sacrilegious to splatter my sword with apple flesh and juice, but at the same time, as I grow more proficient, I cannot help but feel a sense of pride in my achievement. I suspect that is also Cromwell's aim - as he does not wish me to lose my belief in myself again.

As we move into early September, our workload increases to accommodate the final session of Parliament before the weather breaks and renders the roads impassable. One of the bills that Cromwell is aiming to introduce is to address that very issue - setting aside funds to pay for the construction of proper roads between the larger towns. We had such roads once: their names still exist even though the roads themselves barely remain. His plan is to have them restored - though I suspect that finding the money to do so shall be difficult, as the King is far more interested in building palaces for himself than roads for his people.

While it is irksome to be so engaged while most of the rest of the palace population indulges in hunts, sports and masques, it does have the virtue of keeping our minds off the endless sense of waiting that has infected all. In a few days, the Queen shall go into confinement, and that final period of waiting shall start. It is no surprise to me that there are so many entertainments each day, and each night.

We still keep to our regular suppers when we can - as we seem to be expected to be present in the Hall rather more than previously. When we _can_ sup on our own, there is usually a letter from Lady Rochford, apprising us of the Queen's health and welfare, which we swap for a letter in Cromwell's impeccable hand that outlines all that we have been doing in the cause of the Queen's business. While there is not a great deal to report, it is something to occupy her mind while her husband pleases himself with a mistress, and the Court indulges in merriment to pass the time while she waits for the moment that her pains begin.

"We must find a way to be present when the Queen's labour begins." Cromwell says, stabbing his knife into a leg of venison to cut away a slice, "I am, I must confess, at something of a loss as to how we achieve such a thing."

"Such is the inconvenience of being male, Thomas." Wyatt grins, cheerfully, "Do you think that we might be needed?"

Cromwell nods, "I do. While the blessing has kept Lamashtu's malevolence at bay, I have no doubt that she shall attend personally to interfere with the birth. If her Majesty has indeed brought a son to term, then the demoness could hardly keep away. But we cannot be present in the birthing chamber - we are neither women nor related to the mother."

"You are clean shaven." Wyatt muses, "We could put you in a dress."

I almost spit out a mouthful of claret. Cromwell sits back, his expression martyred again, "That is not helpful, Tom."

"Amusing, though." Wyatt grins back.

* * *

One of the advantages to being a Privy Councillor is that I now know what is being reported to the King, whereas previously, I was obliged to wait for Cromwell to return and apprise me of such information. As his Second, it is far more useful for me to have the information directly, as there is often rather vital context that is lacking when details are reported second-hand.

Beauchamp's first order of business is to report that Queen Jane's confinement has begun. She has removed to her apartments, and the birthing chamber is now prepared, "All of the midwives have now been appointed, your Majesty, and have received her Majesty's personal approval. The physicians have been apprised, and I shall be present in the Privy Chamber next door throughout. Thus, as soon as the Prince is born, I shall be able to report to you personally."

God, I wish we could be involved - for there is no prospect that Beauchamp has made any preparation for a demonic visitor. I find myself unable to avoid exchanging a glance with Cromwell. Fortunately, no one notices.

"Excellent." The King approves, "Ensure that her Majesty receives the finest victuals from the Kitchens at all times, and ensure that the apothecaries and physicians are prepared. I want my son to be born to a healthy mother."

Beauchamp bows, and seats himself again.

We are meant to be discussing a number of measures that will be put before Parliament in the new year, but no one seems to be able to concentrate - not when all are so hopeful that the imminent birth shall bring them a prince. It is a matter of weeks, now; and the tension is almost palpable. What if the child does not survive? Worse, what if it is a another girl? The Kingdom needs a prince; no woman has ever ruled this realm in their own right - the only one who might have done was deposed by a man, and that led to years of war. We need peace in the kingdom in order to keep Lamashtu in check - she cannot act unnoticed where there is no chaos. Besides, a Queen must marry one of her own and that would place us in the hands of a foreign King - who would stand for that? A foreign queen is of no concern; Katherine was - and is - still loved by the people despite her Spanish blood. A foreign King, however…

In less than twenty minutes, it is obvious to all that we shall not get much business done, and the King dismisses us. The various Lords disperse to return to their leisure activities, while Cromwell and I return to the offices. We walk at a rather more leisurely pace than usual, as Wriothesley shall not be anticipating our return for another hour at least, and we do not have to put up with his irked glares if we arrive later than expected. Sometimes I think he is worse than an overly strict mother.

"Have you any more ideas as to how we protect the Queen?" I ask.

He shakes his head, "None. Short of climbing the outside of the palace and clinging to a window ledge, I am at a loss. Somehow, Wyatt's suggestion about wearing women's clothing seems almost to be the only possibility."

I stare at him in mild consternation, but he smiles and I realise he is not serious. Then his expression changes, and I look up to see that Jonathan, the Queen's Page, is approaching us. I am far too clumsy to accept the note that he carries, but Cromwell is as deft as Wyatt, and none about us see that anything has exchanged hands. We continue for a few yards, before stepping aside into a passageway, where Cromwell unfolds the paper and reads the text.

"Lady Rochford wishes to speak to us tonight. We shall, therefore, eschew the frivolities in the Hall and sup in my apartments." He mutters, quietly, "I shall speak to William to arrange victuals."

We pass the rest of the day buried in paperwork, and my right hand is sore as hell at the end of it; but we gather at Cromwell's apartments as planned, where William has managed to secure a good portion of a side of beef, fresh bread and an excellent claret. As he is not sure how long Lady Rochford shall be with us, he has set four places at the table - but as the beef is hot, and we do not know when she shall arrive, we sit down to eat.

It is as the expensive little Venetian clock on the overmantel chimes seven that we hear a light knock on the door, and William admits Lady Rochford. Cromwell immediately welcomes her, offers her a place at the table and a cup of the claret, before returning to his seat to await her news.

"I was thinking, my Lords," she says, toying with the cup a little nervously, "now that her Majesty's confinement has begun, and the birth of the prince is imminent, might not the demoness that menaces her make a move of a more determined kind?"

"We are thinking much the same, my Lady." Cromwell agrees.

"Thus, it would be wise to have you close by - as a protective measure?"

"There is no means for us to do that, Lady Rochford." I admit, "We cannot enter the chamber, and there would be nowhere to hide us from the Queen's brother."

She smiles, "What if I told you that there was a way?"

We all lean in, as though pulled by strings.

"Whitehall was of no use to us - for it does not have what I am about to reveal to you." She advises, "The Queen's bedchamber here is linked to the servant's quarters by a concealed passageway. The other palaces are instead served by corridors that are well frequented. It is used by the servants to bring hot water, and to remove the night pails. It can be entered, and left, without anyone knowing - and it provides you with concealed access to the birthing chamber. Should this demoness attempt to harm her Majesty, you can then be ready for her."

I wonder if we should tell Lady Rochford that our weapons have no effect upon Lamashtu; but Cromwell speaks first, "We would find that most helpful - though our weapons would be of little use against her. It would be the presence of the Royal Rosary, and the Life Debt that I owe the Queen, that would truly keep Lamashtu at bay. That is why we must be there."

She nods, "If that is what is required, then I shall do all I can to assist you."

With this information, we can finally set plans in place. As we intend to include her in the discussions, Cromwell serves Lady Rochford some of the beef, which she accepts gratefully, as she has not supped.

"How close to you consider the birth to be, Lady Rochford?" Wyatt asks.

"It cannot be more than a few weeks now." She advises, "The midwives say that the babe has turned, but is not yet lowered. Until then, we can but continue to wait."

"This, then, shall be our plan." Cromwell says, "When you depart tonight, I shall accompany you - so that you can show me where the entrance is to this passageway - for it is one of which I was not previously aware. Then, when her Majesty's pains begin, you must dispatch Jonathan to my Manservant, William - as he shall know where I can be found. We shall then come to the entrance of the passageway, and you must meet us there. We shall wait at the door into the birthing chamber and should Lamashtu appear, we shall engage her; regardless of whether or not Viscount Beauchamp is present."

She nods, "I shall ensure that the ladies and midwives are aware that, should there be any untoward intruders, there is help to hand."

Cromwell nods, then rises from his chair, "If you could wait a moment, my Lady." He turns and goes into his bedchamber. When he comes back, he has a sheathed knife. As she is still seated in the chair at the table, he goes down on one knee beside her, "This is my finest silver knife, Lady Rochford. I have no doubt that you would defend the Queen absolutely to the death - and you yourself have said that your skirts would not hinder you should you be required to do so. Thus, you are our last line of defence: and this is your weapon. You are one of our band, now - for you, too, carry a silver blade." He hands it to her, and she takes it, her expression a strange mixture of emotions.

"I would once have happily plunged this blade into your heart, Mr Cromwell." She admits, quietly, "For you took all from me - but now that I understand why you were forced to do what you did, I could do that no longer. You are not my enemy - none of you are. I have but one, now - and that is any who would menace my gracious Queen. I promise you that I shall honour this weapon, and use it only in the defence of her Majesty."

"As we shall with ours." He says, "I once told her that she was the truest hope of the Kingdom - and I would not have done so without good reason. Thus we must protect her from any who would wish her, or her child, harm. No matter whether she gives us a Prince, or a Princess." Then he rises, and bows to her. Somehow I feel that we should do likewise, and I am not surprised when Wyatt rises, as I do, and we bow to her as well. Her response is a deep curtsey, and she carefully sets the knife under the wide skirts that surround her kirtle, so that it is to hand, but not visible.

Then Cromwell takes up his cup of claret, and raises it - causing us to do the same, "Her Majesty the Queen."

"The Queen." We all add, in unison.

Now we have a plan at last - all we have to do is wait.

* * *

Cromwell is scowling again; something that he seems to do with astonishing regularity after Privy Council meetings. As he has normally eradicated such an expression before returning to the offices, I was not aware until now just how much the Council annoys him. But then, until I joined them, I had no idea how much my fellow Councillors would annoy me, too.

Their arguments are petty, stupid and often venomous - particularly if the King is not present. As his leg is troubling him again, he is currently spending most of his time in his apartments, shouting abuse at his servants and cursing his doctors. Even his latest mistress appears to have lost her charms.

"God help me, I wish that I could bash their heads together like quarrelling children." He grumbles, as we return to the offices after yet another session of posturing and loaded comments, "How we are supposed to ensure the good government of this nation if her Lords cannot even be reasonable towards each other?"

It is an entirely rhetorical question, so I do not attempt to offer any answer. Instead, I nod in agreement, "Is it worse than usual? I wonder if it is merely that we are so close to the birth of the King's babe; for I am aware of at least one betting ring taking wagers upon the date." It is intriguing to note that no one is taking wagers on the sex of the child - as no one wants to risk suggesting that it may be a girl, and thus tempt providence in so doing.

The weather has broken, and we have endured rain and gales for several days, which have put paid to any possibility of hunts or outdoor activities. The nobles are getting ever more spiteful towards one another, and their retinues have been butting heads with alarming frequency. As no one else seems interested in doing so, it is Cromwell who is working with the Captain of the Guard to try to keep the peace, as arguments break out over the stupidest of things - and seem to move on to fists with worrying speed. The last thing we want is for the fists to be exchanged for blades.

The King's leg has improved, as the cooling weather seems to ease the fire for him. Now he is present at the Council Meetings again; and, consequently, manners have recovered somewhat - though not where Cromwell is concerned. Everyone is still ill mannered towards him, as he is not attached to any faction, and he has no noble blood. I suppose they have to have someone to blame for all their ills.

I have lost count of the number of loaded comments over Cromwell's common blood at today's meeting - for he is arguing to secure funds for roads again, which the men about him consider to be trivial. As always, they criticise, but never seem to offer alternative ideas that might be better. Only Suffolk has not spoken - though he looks as frustrated as I probably do. Either that or he knows that an explosion is imminent - though I certainly do not.

"Christ's wounds!" the King suddenly bellows, furious, "Am I hear to listen to the petty squabbles of children? Can no one find it in themselves to agree over even such little matters as these? What must I expect from you if this very Kingdom lay in peril?"

Everyone goes silent, but he has not finished yet, "What use are all of you? Why do you sit here and take all, but give nothing? Why do I even _have_ such pointless creatures as you at this table? You are my Council! You are Councillors! I demand your counsel! Is that not what you are here for? God's Blood, I am badly served! By all of you! I demand men at this table, not children! If you cannot be civil to each other, then be somewhere else! Get out! All of you! _OUT_!"

No one is slow to move. We all rise and bow, and the various lords hastily depart - though Cromwell and I are delayed slightly as we gather our papers back together again.

"Charles, Mr Cromwell, Mr Rich." The King's voice is quieter now, his temper having abated somewhat, "What is behind this behaviour?" he has clearly noted that we were not part of the stupid quarrelling, while Cromwell was not responsible for being its focus.

"I suspect it is nothing more than tension, your Majesty." Suffolk offers, quietly, "We are all in a fever of anticipation for the imminent birth of the Prince. I think it is causing certain Councillors to forget their manners."

The King snorts with laughter, "What manners they have. Get to it with the Bill, Thomas. I expect it to be ready for consideration by Parliament at the next session." He accepts our bows and departs, limping again.

"This child cannot come soon enough." Suffolk mutters, quietly, then also leaves.

As September moves into October, even the clerks are on tenterhooks; possibly because Daniel is taking wagers on a date of birth. They have been trying to keep it from us, but if I've noticed, then I have no doubt that Cromwell has - not that he disrupts their foolishness, as there is no harm in it. As long as there are no fights afterwards if there are disputes over the money. As no one has seen the Queen since she went into confinement, we have no idea how she is faring; though Lady Rochford's reports suggest that she is as well as can be expected. I imagine that she is, of all of us, the most keen to see the child into the world.

It is as we are sitting down to supper on the eleventh day of October, that there is a knock upon Cromwell's door. It is Jonathan. He does not need to say anything - and we abandon the dishes at once, scattering to our apartments to fetch our weaponry before meeting at the entrance to the private corridor.

The Queen's pains have begun - and the child is on its way.


	17. The Battle of the Birthing Chamber

When we have regrouped, our weapons hidden under our cloaks, Cromwell bids us to wait. After a few minutes, Lady Rochford emerges, "I cannot be gone long, Gentlemen," she whispers, as she guides us into the passageway, "As expected, Lord Beauchamp is in the Queen's Privy Chamber, though I think his presence today is more out of concern for his sister than for his position, as he seems very nervous."

"He is an expectant uncle, my Lady," Wyatt quips, "Why should he not be nervous?"

She chuckles in the darkness, but then continues, "There is, however, an unexpected matter. The Lady Mary is in the birthing chamber - as the Queen is her stepmother, she wishes to be present to welcome her half-sibling into the world, and to support her Majesty through her labour."

This is far more of a problem - of all the people to be present that we do not want to be there, the Lady Mary is probably as close to the forefront of that group as the King himself. After all, if Beauchamp is as concerned for his sister as Lady Rochford suggests, then he might even stand with us should Lamashtu confront us. Mary, however, would consider us to be demons ourselves.

"Is Beauchamp alone?" Cromwell asks, quietly.

"No, my Lord. He has several of his retinue in attendance alongside the doctors - though only the highest born. He is most keen that his sister is protected from all who might wish her harm."

He sighs, "That is not helpful. I should not have wished to have so many others to protect as well as her Majesty and her women."

"We are nearly at the chamber," Lady Rochford whispers, "For God's sake, keep as quiet as you can - the door is not as thick as some, and you may be overheard. There is a knothole through which you can observe. I shall ensure the curtain that hides the door is drawn back."

Cromwell might be willing to observe the interior of a birthing chamber, but I most certainly am not. I have an impressive brood of children, but I did not witness the birth of any of them - nor would I have wished to.

As we reach the door, I can hear the sounds of women beyond, and Lady Rochford slips through, taking an apron from one of the midwives and hastily donning it as the door closes behind her. We remain unobserved, and now I can see nothing, as Cromwell takes up his post beside the knothole, and keeps watch.

* * *

As Lady Rochford told us, the door is little more than a random grouping of vertical planks, and does little to offer us much in the way of a barrier between ourselves and what is happening beyond. The room is uncomfortably warm, a warmth that is pervading our space - which, being already narrow and confined, is made worse by the presence of three tall men rather crushed together, as all of us are too tall for the height of the corridor.

The women are talking amongst themselves, as little seems to be happening. Periodically, the Queen's voice is heard, sometimes talking, other times moaning as her pains come. They seem far apart at the moment, so we may have a considerable wait. Most of what I know of childbirth has come from overhearing the conversations of the women who brought my children into the world, so I can only guess as to how much longer we must remain where we are.

I feel deeply uncomfortable, listening to what is going on beyond that door. We are intruding upon a great moment in the life of the Queen, and she is at her most vulnerable - a situation which would surely demand privacy. Our presence, essential though it is, still feels like a dreadful intrusion, and I wish I was anywhere but where I am. The heat in our confined space is worse now, and the odours of blood and other fluids that I cannot name waft through. God help me, I think I might faint…

Beside me, Wyatt groans, faintly, "Jesu…I think I might puke…"

Not on me, for God's sake.

"Be prepared," Cromwell's voice is barely audible, "I shall know when Lamashtu is present. Such is her power that I have no doubt that I shall not need to see her in order to feel her presence - I suspect my head shall hurt just as strongly even if she is not in direct view."

I am surprised at his comment - even in my rather befuddled state, I recall how he behaved when he was bound in that chair of cedar wood at the Priory. Other than during the moments when first he awoke, he showed no sign of such a reaction when she approached him, and I cannot help but say as much, though equally quietly.

"I was able to suppress it." He whispers, "Fortunately, if I focus strongly enough, I can do so, and remain completely still."

Beyond, someone makes a joke, and the ladies are laughing, though Jane's laugh becomes a groan as her pains come again. God, how can they stand this? I wish I was somewhere else - anywhere. Preferably somewhere cooler, less malodorous and with a large pitcher of ale to work my way through. That was how I got through the births of my children.

Beside me, Wyatt gulps. I turn to him, "Don't you dare. It reeks quite enough in here without you adding to it."

"Sorry…" he mumbles, weakly.

We sound so heroic.

There is a small clock in the birthing chamber, and it strikes the hour for the third time since our arrival in at the doorway. How I have not fainted, or vomited, I have no idea; my nausea is almost overpowering thanks to the heat, the ghastly noises and the smells of blood and fluids from the birthing chamber. God alone knows what it must be like for the Queen, who has had to endure the pains now for all of that time - if it is anything like as bad as those I endured thanks to the sovereign specific, I can only sympathise. I am told that labour pains are some of the worst that a woman can experience - so I am most grateful to be a man. Albeit a nauseated, half-fainting embarrassment of a man.

Cromwell remains at his post. He does not seem affected at all by that which has left Wyatt and I so limp and wretched, but instead keeps careful watch. I wish I could be so single-minded.

Then he tenses, and I force myself to be more alert. The ladies go quiet, and we can hear a man's voice issuing a challenge, but then there is a sharp shout, and the sound of a collision. It's then that Cromwell curses, sharply, and presses his hand to his head. As he falls away from the knothole, I quickly look through it myself - and there is no one present. If he cannot see the demon, yet its presence has struck him in the head, it can mean only one thing: the demon is very powerful.

Lamashtu is outside.

* * *

The women are held, frozen in fear at the sounds of violence from the other side of the curtain that separates them from the Privy Chamber. In the need for action, I have forgotten my nausea, and I note that Wyatt has pulled himself together as well. Recovering quickly, Cromwell forces the door open, and leads us out. Lady Rochford nods, and quickly pulls a midwife out of our way as we hurry past the staring women.

As we emerge from the curtains into the presence chamber, the first thing I see is that none of the men present are still on their feet. I hope to God that none have been killed…then I see her.

Lamashtu is as beautiful now as she was when we saw her in the Priory, though she has opted to cover herself more appropriately today, dressed in a maroon overgown over a red kirtle. Her hair is enclosed in a gabled, English hood, and she looks as prim and fine as any of the ladies of the Court. Her expression, however, is anything but prim: alive with bloodlust and excitement - as she directs a cohort of raveners towards us.

Lady Rochford is standing beside the curtains, and Cromwell turns to her, "Protect her Majesty at all costs, my Lady. We shall deal with these creatures." She nods, and immediately returns to the birthing chamber.

"Can you fight all of these, Silver Sword?" Lamashtu asks, smiling unpleasantly as she spreads her arms to indicate her fellow invaders.

"I cannot." Cromwell agrees, "But I am not the only man with silver swords." He cannot help but smile at her look of confusion as Wyatt and I draw our own blades; and then she sees mine.

"What are you doing with that?" she demands, furiously, "You have the Damask blade!"

I have no idea what she means, but I recall what Wolsey told me - presumably the name comes from the steel - not that it matters at this juncture, "It was forged for the Second of the Raven. I'm the Second of the Raven, therefore it's mine. _That_ is what I am doing with it." I am quite surprised at the sound of defiance in my voice: the last time I saw Lamashtu, I was too afraid to move.

Cromwell draws his swords, but stands back, "I suspect that she wants us away from this curtain. Therefore I must ask you two to do battle. I shall keep watch here."

She snarls; a hideous expression, and snaps her fingers. At once, the entire group of raveners are upon us, and we are fighting for our lives. They are quick, deadly, and but for their falling to dust as they are cut or skewered, they would have overrun us in moments. Thanks to our silver weapons, however, they crumble to nothing, keeping our weapons free to cut again, and it is a matter of minutes to destroy them all with our swords and knives. Throughout, Cromwell stays absolutely still at his post, and watches Lamashtu implacably. As he is still in the fine clothes he was wearing in the King's presence, he is a most imposing sight: clad in black, with his full sleeved simarre over his brocaded doublet; his chain of office in place and a jewelled brooch at his throat. And two silver swords crossed before him.

Keeping a close watch on the demoness, I break ranks to assess Beauchamp's condition. None of the men in the room appear to be dead, thank God, and certainly Beauchamp is merely unconscious. At least we are spared the difficulty of explaining ourselves to him. Satisfied, I rejoin Wyatt, and we step back to stand either side of the Raven; Wyatt at his left, I at his right.

"Do you have any more raveners in your pockets?" Wyatt asks her, impudently, "I am sure that I have not had enough practice this night."

"Your blades cannot harm me, poet." She snaps, "I am impervious to silver."

"Even this?" I ask, holding up my sword. She knows what it is; perhaps I can persuade her to divulge some of her knowledge to me.

She smiles, viciously, "You have no idea what you have, do you, Second? That is the Damask blade - and you use it as nothing more than a knife! Forged for a warlord, and now wielded by a fool! You cannot begin to guess at its power!"

"So it _can_ harm you, then?" I suggest. She has not, after all, answered my question.

"Do you want to find out?" Lamashtu asks, her eyes fixed upon me.

"Not while the Queen is in danger." I refuse. She might call me a fool, but I am not willing to prove myself to be one by attempting to fight her. I am not even close to as proficient with a blade as Cromwell, and she was able to beat him. I would last no more than a matter of minutes, if that - and then what use would I be to the Raven?

"Stand aside then, you coward. You cannot stop me - I shall enter the chamber and await the child. When it is born, I shall snatch it, and dash out its brains upon the floor!"

None of us move; but then she almost certainly did not expect us to. Scowling, she advances, and then stops, her expression confused.

"Are you having difficulties, Madame?" Cromwell asks, calmly.

"What have you done?" Lamashtu demands, furiously, "Have you set charms against me? Fools! Did you think that a mere blessing would keep me at bay?" she tries again, and is repelled again.

"It is not the blessing."

"Then you have set spells!" She cries, "With that fool bigot in the room? The girl who would set you afire for your beliefs if she could? You have used witchcraft!"

"I have not." Apparently he wishes to keep her guessing.

"It is _you!_ " Lamashtu hisses, suddenly, " _You_ are the protection! What have you done to yourself if you have not used witchcraft?"

She knows much about infernal powers, then - but nothing about Sacred ones. Cromwell turns to me, "Richie."

He wants me to tell her, then. Very well: I should like nothing more.

"He is protected by the Royal Rosary, and by the power of a Life Debt. We might not be able to harm you, but you cannot harm him, and you cannot pass him. Thus we shall stand here until the Queen's child is born, and you can grind your teeth at your failure before you depart."

She bares her teeth at us, and for the briefest moment, I see something that I would much rather have not. Her clothing seems to vanish, showing me green, wrinkled lizard skin, and her face deforms into a hideous, split countenance with three eyes - and two mouths. I am seeing her true form…two mouths…one for Red Fire, the other for Blue Fire. If only we had them here - and now.

Then it is gone - but, oddly, neither Cromwell nor Wyatt seem to show any sign that they have seen what I have seen. Instead, they remain calm and focused upon her. Shaking myself slightly, I stand with them.

"Well, Lamashtu." Cromwell says, quietly, "Are you willing to stay here for the rest of the night? I can assure you that we shall not leave, so there is no purpose in your staying."

There is a rustle of curtains behind us, and Lady Rochford looks out, fearfully, "You must act, Gentlemen - quickly, for the Queen is struggling - the babe will not be born!"

I turn back to look at Lamashtu. Her expression is changing from chagrin to an almost wild triumph. She might not be able to reach the Queen, but her presence alone is causing the damage she seeks - her anger at us was no more than a ruse to grant us the false belief that we had prevailed. Now she laughs, horribly, "And you thought that you had won! Did you not know? Even my mere aura is sufficient to end this! She shall not bear the babe, so it shall die in her womb, and she shall die with it!"

I cannot stop myself. She has still not answered my question about my sword; so why not try? If the child is lost, then so is England - I raise my blade and make to rush at the gloating demon.

"No, Richie!" Cromwell stops me, his voice catching me as I make my first step, "No weapon can harm her - not mine, not yours - do not throw your life away. We must find another remedy."

Perhaps so - but there is none. What can we do? We cannot harm her, and she cannot pass us - but despite this, she can still destroy everything. Even as we have repelled her, still we have lost - and with us, so has our Queen.


	18. Where the Hell is Wolsey when you Need Him?

Cromwell is staring at Lamashtu, and for the first time, I see defeat in his eyes. Again, he has failed a Queen, and a child shall pay for it before even taking its first breath. We thought that we could protect Jane - but it seems that we cannot, and her death could well be the destruction of all England.

"Ah, you poor, grieving Raven." Lamashtu gloats, viciously, "You have failed! Failed once more to protect a Queen from my malice! Your stricken expression delights me - I shall ensure that that is what you display when your head adorns my wall! For the King shall not have it, even as you are found here as the Queen dies!"

He does not answer. What can he say? We cannot repel her - even with the Royal rosary, and the Life Debt - and so her malign presence keeps the babe from being born. We do not have the power to drive her back - she is more than a mere demon, even with the promise of faith, she is stronger: for we are mortal men with stained, sinful souls…only one who is forgiven…

Forgiven…

_Wolsey_.

Without hesitation, I bow my head and concentrate - if I can allow him into me again, perhaps he can drive her out. Once I might well have been distraught at such a discovery, now I welcome it. We cannot help the Queen - but he can; for is he not both forgiven and a member of our group?

But he does not come; there is no shift in my awareness. Where is he? Why is he not able to…

It must be her - he is not strong enough to get past her malevolence…or could it be that he needs to be pushed?

I look up, "Dear God - where the hell is Wolsey when you need him?"

"What?" Wyatt turns to me, confused. I'm not sure that Cromwell has even heard me speak.

"God's blood! After all our talk of his being there for us in our hours of need, where is he now? Is he reading? Perhaps he is sleeping? Or maybe he is in the Jakes! Where the hell are you, Cardinal? Would you really leave us alone when we are in most need? Surely not? Am I the only hope that anyone has? Get your damned arse here now!"

Still nothing. He is probably not angry enough.

"Are you truly so helpful, then? Now that our need is greatest? Come on, Wolsey! Show yourself, or do I have to tell everyone that you failed us? After you have so berated me for my failures! They cannot be as bad as this!"

Then I feel it - that same sense of separation, and I can feel his fury as he pushes through the barrier of Lamashtu's profane existence. I know that my body is now still, almost to the point that I am not breathing, and I wait for him to speak. But he does not.

Instead, he steps forward: out of me, and into his mortal form.

* * *

Wolsey was always an imposing sight - the rich red of his robes and zucchetto added to his height and strength. That has not diminished, despite his being long dead. He is here - and using me to be here - but I have no idea how it is that he is now able to take his own form.

Regardless of how he has got here, his presence has an immediate effect upon Lamashtu, who curses and spits as she backs away from him. She is, of course, a profane being - but he is forgiven, and so that grants a degree of power that we lack. Nothing profane can stand against a forgiven soul, and so he is repelling her.

"You cannot harm the Raven, demoness." He says, even his voice his own despite using me to speak, "He is protected by the Rosary, and the Life Debt - but also by the devotion of his friends. That which you do not have. Thus he is a barrier between you and she who would bring you to your doom."

The Queen? Does he mean Queen Jane? No wonder Cromwell called her the truest hope of the Kingdom.

"A curse above all curses upon you, Dead soul!" Lamashtu spits back, enraged, "They can protect themselves, but they cannot protect her! Even now, my presence keeps the brat from being born into the world! There shall be no succession! Nothing but women to take this throne, and wars to win their hands and obtain power! Even if I am held back, I have still won!"

"Not if I have anything to do with it, Demoness. I have my own grace to defend her, and so I shall. You shall depart from here, and take your evil with you. The child shall be born, and peace shall be upon this realm."

"You are naught but a shade! You cannot harm me!" she laughs, dismissively.

I cannot see anything other than what is ahead of me, as I cannot move, just as was the case in the gibbet when Wolsey spoke the Grace through me. As he did on that occasion, Wyatt calls across to me, "What is it, Richard? Are you well?"

Again, I cannot answer. Instead, I remain focused upon the confrontation before me. Lamashtu steps forth, clearly intending to brush past Wolsey.

"A shade I may be," he advises her coolly, "But a shade who has been lent the soul of a living man. Thus I have both the solidity and the strength to hold you back." Immediately, he snatches out and grasps her arm to force her away from us.

Screeching in fury, Lamashtu strikes out, and catches him a violent blow across the face. He is unmarked - for he is dead - but I am not. I feel nothing, but I can sense moisture working its way through my moustache towards my upper lip. I suspect that my nose must be bleeding, but I cannot raise my hand to be certain.

Wolsey grasps her arms firmly, and forces her back towards the door. Screaming in fury, she wrenches free, and lashes out at him again. I feel a blow connect, but as before, there is no pain. Immediately, Wolsey responds, and strikes her back - for she is only in the _form_ of a woman, and he is not interested in chivalry when the Queen's life is at stake. As they battle, I become aware of increased activity behind me, and I realise that Wolsey's presence, or perhaps the fight, is neutralising Lamashtu's malice - and the Queen's labour is progressing again.

The battle goes on, however, and the violence is not letting up. I do wish Wolsey wouldn't allow _quite_ so many of the blows through, as they are landing upon me, and I can imagine that I shall feel it when this is over, particularly as Lamashtu scratches wildly at his face, and I feel more moisture as three scratches open up on my left cheek. Wyatt has taken hold of my arm, "What is happening, Richard? What is it?"

Then I hear Cromwell's voice, though it sounds sad, "He has given his soul to Wolsey to use. He cannot answer you, Tom."

"What?" Wyatt turns, his expression astounded, "He can do that?"

"He's a Second, Tom. He has access to methods of which I know nothing. Keep out of his way; just be ready for the moment when Wolsey releases him."

Wyatt stands aside, and I can see the battle again. Wolsey and Lamashtu are at the door to the apartments; where she is held by him, as he stands over her, "Enough, Demoness. I can repel you even though the Raven cannot - and so I shall, but not before I offer you one more reward for your actions." To my astonishment, he proves his rough origins, and headbutts her like a tavern bruiser, causing my vision to briefly craze, as she falls to the floor; whereupon he stands over her, " _That_ is for sending the malevolence against my Silver Sword." He snaps at her, furiously.

I have no idea what language Lamashtu is using as she sprawls on her back and attempts to get back to her feet, but it sounds truly vile - and even more so if she is cursing him, which I imagine she must be. Her face still has that alabaster smoothness, and there is probably some of its beauty in there somewhere, but her expression has contorted into a savage, twisted mess, and her ugliness is now on the fullest display for all to see.

Staggering slightly, she rises again, but it is clear now that Wolsey has had enough, "The fighting ends now, Demoness. It serves no purpose. Now is not the time of your destruction - for the Raven is not yet ready to do so. I cannot destroy you, but I can repel you, and so I shall."

He then takes two steps back, and makes the sign of the Cross. Whether it is the sign alone, or the man who has made it, I cannot tell, but it is sufficient to cause her to shriek in horror. Then she turns, and flees the room. It is done - and she has lost.

* * *

For a moment, everything is silent. I am still held, and can only watch as Wolsey turns back to look at Cromwell. They have not laid eyes upon each other since before Queen Anne's marriage, and Cromwell was sent on a mission to seek out the views of theologians at overseas Universities in order to annul the King's marriage to Katherine. By the time he returned, Wolsey had already been sent to York - and would never return to London.

I know that Wolsey would not use me unfairly, and I do not begrudge him a moment with his Silver Sword. It is clear that Cromwell is fighting to hold back tears, and Wolsey reaches out to embrace him. They had been father and son in all but blood and name; and he had never had the chance to bid his former Second farewell.

"I am proud of you, Thomas." He says, quietly, "You have proved yourself to be more than worthy of the mission that has been placed upon you." He looks across at me, "And you have chosen your Second well. It was a clever idea of his to provoke me to anger - but for that, I could never have reached him."

"Thank you, Eminence." I can hear the thickness of his voice, the grief he is struggling to contain.

"Take care, my boy." Wolsey smiles, "Work hard. Work well. Lamashtu is a deadly enemy, and only you and yours can prevent her plans. I shall travel with you as best I may - and all the help I can give you, I will." Then he sighs a little, "I must depart now, for my task here tonight is complete. Farewell, my Silver Sword."

"Farewell, Eminence." They embrace again, the goodbye that had not been shared when Wolsey lived.

He smiles at us, offers us his blessing, and is gone.

And then it hits me. As my awareness returns, it brings the pain of the injuries with it, and I cannot stand up, my balance faltering and sending me into an ungainly heap upon the floor. Having never head butted anyone in my life, I was not aware of the headache that it could inspire, and I raise my hand to my forehead with a groan. I feel as though I have boxed an elephant - and lost. Wyatt drops to his knees beside me, "Are you alright? What on earth happened?"

"The same as happened in the Tiltyard against Zaebos." I mumble, still rather dizzy from the blow to my head, "Wolsey came to me and used me - though I have no idea how it was that he was able to take his mortal form. Perhaps it was something to do with the Rosary, or one of the other protective forces we seem to have about us."

Now that Lamashtu is gone, things are clearly moving apace in the birthing chamber, as we can all hear the sounds of a midwife urging the Queen to begin pushing. It seems all is not lost after all.

Cromwell, still a little damp about the eyes, assists me to a chair, before turning his attention to Beauchamp, who is still unconscious, as are the two physicians and the men he had brought with him as guards, "They are all largely unharmed, I think," He reports, "Though I hope that this will not last too long - for Beauchamp is meant to be here with the intention of reporting the birth to the King as soon as it occurs. He cannot do that if he is still out cold when the child is born."

We sit for a while, listening to the work behind the curtain. Poor Queen Jane sounds exhausted, and I can hear the Lady Mary pleading with her not to give up. How long has she been at this now? God knows - I have long since lost track of time - though the malevolence of Lamashtu stalled her labour, which can only have weakened her. If she does not deliver soon, then there may be no choice but to cut the child free - and that would certainly mean her death. Please God, do not let that happen…

The chair in which I have been seated is comfortable, and I find myself drifting off. Wolsey's occupation of my living form has taken more out of me than I expected, and I am very tired. Not, I suspect, as tired as the Queen - for she is still fighting to bring her child into the world, and I cannot help but wonder if, after all we have endured, we have still failed…

Cromwell is shaking my shoulder, and I look up, drowsily, "What?"

He smiles, "Listen." Then I hear it - the sound of a child's cry. At once, I am alert, "Is it well - what is it? Boy or girl?"

Then Lady Rochford emerges from the chamber with a look of almost incandescent joy, "God be thanked, for the child is born - and it is a boy. Their Majesties have a son!"


	19. A Debt Repaid

Fortunately, Beauchamp is showing signs of recovery, as are his guards and the two doctors. I am still a little dazed, I think, as Cromwell has to all but pull me from the chair in which I sit, "Come, Richie - we must away. I shall need you to take my swords. Once Beauchamp emerges with the news, I shall need to accompany him to his Majesty to deliver it. I cannot do that while bearing arms."

As we return to the birthing chamber, the ladies stare at us again, and one of them utters a small scream at the sight of me, looking as battered as I do. Hastily, Lady Rochford bustles us towards the entrance to the passageway, which has been concealed behind a curtain, and ushers us through, "I shall ensure that none of the ladies speak of what happened here this night," she whispers, "though I cannot vouch for the Lady Mary. The fact that the child is safe, and you are leaving, may mollify her; but it may be necessary for the Queen herself to seek her silence if I am unable to do so."

Cromwell nods, "Let her be if you can. She shall be very tired, and we must leave her in peace. You shall not see us in here again unless it is necessary, but I think it shall not be. Lamashtu has been driven away, and the sign of the Cross made in her presence. She shall not return - so all should now be well. Keep the knife to hand, however, for you are still her closest guard."

"I shall. Thank you for all you have done - and God be praised, for the Kingdom has a Prince at last!"

She closes the door behind us as we depart, and we blunder back through the darkened passageway to the Servant's hall, where Cromwell leaves us. I have his swords concealed under my cloak, but I am still rather befuddled - I had no idea that Wolsey's head was so hard. Wyatt is full of questions, I can see, and I am not surprised when he accompanies me back to my apartments. As I am unable to answer most of the questions he is likely to ask - either through secrecy or simply not knowing - I offer him some wine, and plead both tiredness and a headache to forestall any interrogations.

"It is strange." Wyatt muses, as he swirls the wine about his cup, "After all that happened, I cannot quite believe that something so small could be so large."

"Pardon?" His words confuse me, but then, I am tired and still in some pain from the bruising and cuts that Wolsey left me with.

"The babe - so tiny, and yet all the hopes of a Kingdom hang upon him. Poor child - it is a harsh thing to be born a prince. There shall be so many expectations that he must meet - so many worries and pains that he must face."

"He is still no more than a babe, Tom. There is time for him to grow, and be a child. I am sure that the Queen would never permit him to be treated as anything other. No matter how much the King wishes to protect him, his mother is strong, and she shall ensure that he knows what it is to be loved."

"As Elizabeth is loved? As Mary is? Both were loved by the King, but no Royal child is permitted to live in the Court. Unless his mother is truly as strong as you believe, he shall be kept from her with his own retinue, and his own palace. That is no life for a child."

"You are thinking of Anne, aren't you?" I ask him, quietly. I think for a moment that he might be offended, but instead he looks at me, and nods.

"She was kept from her mother - given a household of her own, and was no more than three years old when her mother was taken from her. Does she even remember Anne at all? Even as she is back at court, thanks to Queen Jane, I cannot imagine that she has much remembrance of her mother."

"Anne is at peace now, Tom." I remind him, "None can ever harm her again, or insult her, or cause her pain. We know what she suffered - we were the cause of some of it - and that is something that we shall carry for as long as we live: until all hurts are mended and we are together again in God's care. We have, tonight, saved the life of a child, and brought hope to a Kingdom - and in doing so, have we not honoured her memory? We may have failed her - but we swore not to fail again, and we have not failed Queen Jane."

He smiles, tiredly, "You sound most wise, Mr Rich."

"I suspect it is thanks to my headache. I do not expect it to last."

It is late when Cromwell arrives, having visited his own quarters to remove the more ostentatious garments he was wearing. He has a bottle with him, probably of one of his finest clarets, and he joins us beside the fire.

"Beauchamp does not recall what caused him to lose consciousness," he reports, "thus he prefers not to mention it, as he thinks that he fainted - and is embarrassed to have done so."

I cannot help a rather childish giggle into my wine.

"His Majesty, on the other hand, is delighted - so much so that one would have thought that he had given birth to the child himself; and that it is the second coming of the Christ. He was still declaring the form of the celebrations when I departed, for he has set Beauchamp to the task of organising it."

"And you to the task of paying for it." Wyatt grins at him.

Cromwell shares out the wine he has brought with him, which is far better than that which I had available, and he looks at me, "God above, Richie, your bruising is starting to show - you look as though you've been in a tavern brawl."

"I was not expecting that, I must admit." I say, a little ruefully.

"You invited Wolsey to take you over, did you not?" Cromwell asks, "It was a voluntary decision upon your part - which was not the case when you were in the gibbet in the Tiltyard."

I nod, "I did - though, in a way, my plea to God for aid served as my consent at the Tiltyard."

"What is it that you are not telling me?"

I am, supposedly, sworn to secrecy - but since we seem to have broken every rule that has ever been imposed upon us by the Order of the Silver Swords, I decide it is not worth keeping this one, either.

"Wolsey can speak to me." I explain, "Since I chose irrevocably to be a Second, he has been able to approach me in the Library - and he has taught me much. When I spoke that blessing, it was not I, but he - for the words were meant to be spoken by one ordained, which I was not. As Wolsey was an ordained priest, he could do so, and did so through me."

"And today?" Cromwell prompts.

"Today - I realised that, as we are mortal men, we have not the right or the ability to repel a demon of such power as Lamashtu, even in Christ's name. An aberration such as she could easily withstand our supplications, for we are stained by our sinful nature, are we not? She could only be repelled by one forgiven - and so I knew that Wolsey could aid us, for even though he is in Purgatory, he would not be there if he had not been granted forgiveness for his sins when alive. As he can speak through me, I offered him my living soul as a repository for him to come into this world again - though I was not aware that he would be able to manifest in his own form. I am still not certain as to how he did that. Perhaps it was the presence of the rosary. That said - the presence of Lamashtu was too strong for him at the outset - it was only when I angered him that he found the strength to reach me."

"You can _do_ that?" Wyatt asks, shocked.

"It is because he is a Second, Tom." Cromwell says, "Did I not say that there are things that Seconds can do that Silver Swords know nothing of? Though I suspect this is only possible because Wolsey is in Purgatory. Would I be correct in that?"

I nod, "It isn't something that I have been granted an ability to do - it is Wolsey's prerogative. As I am the owner of my living soul, however, I can invite him to use it - but he cannot take it, and I can do nothing myself. I am still a mortal man - but also a Second."

"I think, however, that it has tired you a great deal, Richie. I would not recommend that you do such a thing in future unless there is no other course; and I suspect that Wolsey would not come to you if it were not necessary - as his presence has taken a great deal out of you. Do not do this again - unless all else is lost. Promise me."

I nod, for he is right - I do feel very drained, "I promise."

* * *

By the following morning, my bruising has become truly spectacular, and I draw stares wherever I go. I have no doubt that the rumour mill is in full flow, particularly as I have scratches upon my cheek, and people are assuming an entanglement with a woman. If only they knew.

With the birth of a son, everyone is granted a week's holiday, and the largesse is astonishing - free wine, victuals and celebrations on a magnificent scale. Henry has waited a long time to put on such a show, and he is all the more generous for that wait. For Cromwell, on the other hand, the whole affair is a magnificent headache, for he must find the funds to pay for it all.

The entire city is celebrating, and there are fireworks exploding at night all across London, while people visit the wine fountains that have been set at Westminster, and indulge in a wild riot of drinking, feasting, brawling and puking that only Londoners can achieve.

At Hampton, however, things are quieter - though not perhaps by much. While there is certainly far too much drinking, the presence of the Royal family keeps things under more control, and there have not been as many fights as one might suppose after such an intake of wine. Queen Jane is still resting, though she has been visited by the King, and he has decreed that their son shall be named Edward.

On the third day of the celebrations, the babe Edward is baptised, and both Cromwell and I are honoured with an invitation to be present in the Chapel Royal. I am, to my dismay, still horribly bruised up, and even though Lady Rochford has done what she can with her cosmetics box, her ministrations serve only to make me look far worse, so I end up having to wash off all that she attempts. I must hope, therefore, that I can hide behind a pillar, or as far as possible from view.

There has not been time to bring Cranmer up from Canterbury, but I suspect that this is a deliberate act on Gardiner's part, as he has no intention of allowing the boy to have any access to lutheran influence. Instead, he baptises the child, in the presence of his parents, with the Lady Mary as Godmother, and little Lady Elizabeth granted the responsibility of holding the Chrisom. Mary is holding her half-brother tenderly, but also protectively - and every now and again, she directs a guarded glance at Cromwell, though he is far more comfortable with that than the ardour that she displayed for him at Christmastide.

Queen Jane looks even paler than usual, and her eyes are dark with shadows. It is quite likely that she should not be here - for she has only just risen from childbed - but convention requires her presence, to make the necessary promises to God on behalf of Prince Edward. The child sleeps with absolute trust in his godmother, submits to baptism with barely a cry, and is proclaimed Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester by the Garter King of Arms with barely a sound as the ceremony comes to a close.

Despite the resolutely Catholic turn of the ceremony, I am surprised to note that Cromwell shows no offence. After all that we did to save the boy, it is of little concern to him now who oversees his baptism - that he is baptised is what matters; that he is safe, and _alive_. Peace must be maintained - the Mission is All.

As soon as the baptism is over, the King and Queen preside over a magnificent feast in the hall. With no reason not to, we are more than happy to indulge ourselves in the largesse, as the Kitchens have been at work since first light to produce the enormous array of meats, breads, candies and sweetmeats that adorn the tables. That said, once we have loaded up plates with victuals, we find ourselves a quiet corner in which to feast, as I can see that Cromwell is not happy.

"What is it?" I ask, nervously, "Have you seen more raveners?"

He shakes his head, "No, not in the last two nights - I think that Lamashtu is too stung to direct them, so they have reverted to their normal behaviour. What do you make of the Queen's health?"

Wyatt sighs, "You have noticed, too, then?" he says, "She looks so pale and wan - the labour may have been relatively short, but it was interfered with by a demon, and I suspect that has taken a toll akin to a longer, harder time for her Majesty. I do not think she should be out of her bed."

"She is keen to do her duty as a Queen and a wife." I add, "Even were she dying, I think she would do all to be present. Perhaps she shall return to her apartments soon."

There is nothing we can do to intervene, however, so our conversation reverts to more neutral topics, as more people have gathered nearby, and we do not want them overhearing talk of demons - not while we are celebrating. Instead, I sit back, as much as my bruising permits, and allow myself time to simply enjoy the celebration. I think Cromwell is doing the same, as he jokes with Wyatt, and smiles cheerfully to any who approach us. The people of the court have become used to seeing the three of us in close companionship, so we no longer attract bemused stares. I think I might be a little drunk, as I am almost idiotically happy. To think I used to avoid making friends…

"Ah," Wyatt's voice interrupts me, "I think Mr Rich may need his bed, he is falling asleep in that corner."

"That is his reward for allowing a Cardinal to use his body for a fight with a demoness." Cromwell adds, "Come, gentlemen, I think we have enjoyed ourselves enough for the day. Time to rest and recover ourselves. We still have the jewels to find."

* * *

When I wake the following morning, the light is painful to my eyes, and I feel wretched. Yes, I must have been rather drunk last night, and now I am paying the price for it.

John takes pity upon me, and brings me warmed white wine with some ginger root, though I struggle to stomach it. Thank God we still have two more days before we are back to the offices again, and that there are no raveners to be seen. Hopefully Cromwell and Wyatt will just leave me in peace, and let me sleep for the day. I am certainly tired enough to.

Much of the day passes as I drift in and out of sleep, usually waking briefly enough to think that I should get up, only to sink back again. Now and again, I see John hovering over me, looking worried, and, eventually I open my eyes again to see that Cromwell has arrived: John must think that I am ill. I try to tell him that I am not, but my mouth does not seem to want to work.

"He has no fever, my Lord," John admits, "but I have never seen him in so weak a state. Should I summon a physician?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "I think not, John. We have been extremely busy over the last few weeks, and I think it is naught but that taking its toll upon him. I am more than used to living on short sleep, but your master is not. Allow him to sleep today, and tonight. If there is no improvement by the morning, then we shall speak to a physician."

The next thing I remember, it is morning. Jesu - I have all but slept the clock round, and I sit up, shocked at such a ridiculous state of affairs. My head does not spin, and I do not feel that bone-crushing tiredness any more, so it is clear - from my vague recollection of last night - that Cromwell was correct.

John is most relieved to see that I have recovered, and I plead with him for victuals, for I am ravenously hungry. By the time he has helped me to dress, I am relieved to find hot mutton chops and bread awaiting my attention, and set to as though I have not seen food in a month.

I am not surprised when both Cromwell and Wyatt arrive, as I must have presented a worrying prospect the previous day - all battered and bruised, and barely able to remain awake. My obvious rude health when they see me causes quite heartwarming expressions of relief from them both, and Wyatt quickly steals a chop from the dish.

"Did I miss anything yesterday?" I ask, as Wyatt chews a too-large mouthful.

"Nothing of consequence." Cromwell reports, "The Queen has returned to her apartments to rest and recover, while we seem to have no demons resident within the palace at the present time. I suspect that Wolsey's blessing might have driven all away for a while. There is no scent of ichor to be found anywhere - even as a residue - and I cannot recall a time when that was the case after we have been in residence at a palace for more than a month."

"We should enjoy the rest, then." Wyatt mumbles, then swallows.

"Could you not have done that the other way around?" I ask, vaguely disgusted at his manners. In response, he merely grins at me, and tears off another mouthful with his teeth.

Beauchamp has organised a glittering tourney for the afternoon, and the King shall be present to watch, even though he is likely to be desirous to ride and joust as he had once done. As he is no longer able to enter the lists, thanks to the accident that nearly took him from us, he is instead forced to watch other, younger, bloods, risk their lives for the entertainment of the court.

I have never understood the appeal of such events, and rarely attend them, but it seems that no one is to be permitted to miss this joust, so we join the crowds at the Tiltyard. The Queen is not present, so it is the Lady Mary who sits with her father, and hands her favour to one of the Knights - a young man whose name I do not catch - who is riding for the King. Being so uninitiated, I have no idea what is happening, so Wyatt provides me with a commentary that is so ridiculous, and comical, that even those around us are laughing, rather than demanding that he be quiet.

The evening ends with another spectacular feast in the Hall, for tomorrow all shall be work again. The Queen does not attend, as she is - we are told - still very tired from her lying in. Again, the Lady Mary stands in for her with aplomb, leading the dances and showing a degree of happiness that none of us thought she would ever show again after her mother died. Despite her enmity for him, I can see that Cromwell is smiling to see her so joyously occupied. Perhaps he is thinking of his own, lost daughters.

I am far more careful with the wine this time about, as I have no wish to annoy Wriothesley yet again. For a man who has no power to command me, I seem to spend a great deal of time taking care not to offend him. I am not sure why that is - but there is something about him that deeply unnerves me: the way that he always seems to be watching, taking note of everything about him. He probably has hopes of high office, as we all do, and possibly even ennoblement. He would not be the only one, as I was just the same before my energies were directed elsewhere - though I am certain that I was not so coldly calculating about it as he seems to be.

After a week, there is still no sign that the Queen intends to rejoin the court, and people are starting to gossip. Is she well? Has the King dispensed with her now that he has the son he craves? Is she still even in the Palace? The rumours are growing wilder and wilder, and still the Queen has not emerged. It is, it has to be said, something of a shadow in the sun, and even the offices are not immune from the speculation, despite Cromwell's attempts to quell it. He says nothing, but I can see he is concerned, and he knows something that we do not. From that, I can but guess that the Queen must be ill - there is no other explanation that makes sense.

We have resumed our evening suppers, even though there is no longer a pressing need to hunt. It is as though Cromwell is waiting for something, but still he says nothing to us. It is only as we are sitting back from our meal with cups of hippocras that I finally understand what he awaits, as there is a fearful knocking upon the door that William rushes to answer.

It is Lady Rochford, her hair in disarray and her eyes red from weeping, "My Lord!" she cries, anguished, "I beg you, please come quickly - the Queen, she is dying, can you not save her? There must be something that you can do! Please!" and she dissolves into tears again.

Cromwell says nothing, but rises from his chair and nods. God help us, he's going to try - but what the hell can he do?

* * *

"What is the illness?" he asks, as we hurry through the corridors towards the hidden passageway, for the doctors are still present, and we cannot enter through the Presence Chamber.

"It is childbed fever, my Lord," Lady Rochford whispers, as the news is still not widely known, "she has been unwell for several days, but it has struck at her today unexpectedly - we thought she might be over the worst…" she hiccups, but forces herself to remain calm.

"I am not able to cure illnesses, my Lady." Cromwell reminds her, gently, "I can fight demons, but not sickness."

"What about the Life Debt?" Wyatt asks, suddenly, "Could that help her?"

"God, yes," Cromwell looks furious with himself, "I had forgotten that - I have no idea if it might work, but it is all I can offer; so lead on my Lady. We should be there as soon as we may, in hopes that the doctors may depart and give us room to work."

As we make our way through the passage, I cannot help but ask, "How shall you discharge the debt?"

"I have no idea," Cromwell admits, "Wolsey did tell me that I should discharge it in the manner in which I received it - but I was not conscious, so I do not know how it happened."

"I can tell you that," I advise him, cheerfully, "She kissed you."

"God have mercy." He groans, "That, I do _not_ need."

"Fear not, Thomas," Wyatt adds, chuckling, "She kissed you on the forehead, not the mouth."

By the time we reach the bedchamber, the doctors are departing. From their expressions, they have clearly given up all hope. They must be going to fetch Gardiner, Beauchamp and the King. Lady Rochford utters a small moan as she realises the same as we do. If we are to save the Queen, then we must act at once, as we shall have very little time.

As soon as they are gone, Lady Rochford opens the door and ushers us in. We have no time to assess the situation, as an angry voice cuts across us, "What are _they_ doing here?"

Oh God - the Lady Mary is present.

None of us have time to reply, as she carries on, "Why, of all people, Lady Rochford - have you brought the vile men who destroyed my mother, who conspired with the…with the _Concubine_ , to deny me my rights as a Princess of the Blood! How _dare_ you! Get them out! And then get yourself out!"

Rather than cower, instead Lady Rochford draws herself up, "I have brought them here out of loyalty to my Queen, my Lady! For they are the only ones who can save her!"

"None but God can save her now!" Mary cries, and her tears are evident upon her cheeks, for she is sinking back into that terrible grief that followed the death of her mother - as the woman she thought could be her new mother is now also dying.

His eyes bright with sympathy, Cromwell edges past Lady Rochford, but again she does not grant him the opportunity to speak, "Get out of here, Cromwell! And take your two sycophants with you!"

He says nothing, but instead unfastens the collar of his doublet and carefully reaches in to extract the Rosary, which he allows to rest outside his clothing, the crucifix resting over his heart. Mary's eyes widen in horror, "That belonged to my Mother…"

"And it was passed to your Stepmother, who passed it to me. It keeps me alive, and but for its protection, it would not have been possible to keep back the infernal presence who came to this chamber on the night of the Prince's birth. Had I not been there, and had I not had this, then we would be mourning our lost Prince. It is my hope that we shall not have to mourn a lost Queen.

"I failed your mother, my Lady. For it was that same infernal being that robbed her of male children, and drove away the King's love for her. I knew not what I know now, and could not have saved her even had I known of the creature that we expelled from these very chambers - for I lacked the protection that this Rosary grants me. My failure robbed you of your mother, and I have always regretted that failure - for the Queen was loved, and I loved her as a true subject. Even when his Majesty wished to remove her, I regretted all, for she had given all her love to this Kingdom, and had received only an infernal curse in return."

Mary is staring at him, her eyes uncertain, for she does not know whether or not to believe him. Rather than allow her to interrupt him, and perhaps talk herself out of any possible acceptance of his words, he continues, "I refuse to let Queen Jane suffer as Queen Katherine did, my Lady. Nor shall I leave you bereft of a loving stepmother, who has welcomed you back to your true home with your father. It is all that I can do to make good my appalling failure to your mother."

Then, to everyone's surprise, he goes down on his knees, "I can only beg for your forgiveness, my Lady. Please allow me to try to save the Queen - for she has been good to us, and to me, as much as to you. She has saved my life, and I wish only to save hers in return. I am truly, truly sorry that I failed you, and your dear mother."

There is only sincerity in his voice, and no one could possibly doubt that he is speaking the truth. Her eyes bright with tears, Mary steps forward, and I wonder if she is going to accept his apology, or strike him. Either might happen: it is impossible to tell from her face. Then she stops in front of him, and also goes down upon her knees, "As God is my witness, my Lord," she says, very quietly, "I sought only your death and suffering in compensation for the martyrdom of my mother. I beg you to save my stepmother - for she has brought me joy that I thought never to feel again. I forgive you all that you have done that was against me. Please - save her if you can, for I know I cannot lose another loving presence from my life. Not again."

She rises, and he does the same, before bowing to her with the full formality that would only be expected to be given to one of the Blood Royal. As she is not a Princess, she is not entitled to such deference, and has not received it since her titles were removed from her - but she has behaved as a Princess, and both Wyatt and I offer her the same deference in return.

Her eyes bright with tears, Mary stands aside, and allows Cromwell to approach the Queen. She seems to show almost no signs of life - barely even breathing, but he stands over her, "As you saved me, allow me to save you. I discharge my Life Debt." Then he bends over her, and plants a soft kiss upon her forehead, as she had done to him. Rising again, he steps away, and bows formally to her as a Queen Regnant, before backing from her as though she were conscious and receiving him.

Wyatt and I do likewise, for there is nothing else we can do. Then, as we hear the door of the presence chamber opening, we bolt for the passageway, and make the fastest exit that we can.

"Please God, let that work." I mutter, as we make our way back out to the Servants' Hall.

"It would break the Lady Mary's heart if it does not." Wyatt admits, "But it worked for you, Thomas, so I see no reason why it should not work for her."

None of us return to our chambers. Instead, we make our way to the Chapel Royal which is, not surprisingly, thronged with people all on their knees before God, praying for the Queen. As they pray, so do we. Now, as with the birth, we must wait.

* * *

We remain on our knees for the best part of two hours, and I am irresistibly reminded of the time when we did much the same in Cromwell's bedchamber, praying for his recovery as much as we now pray for that of the Queen.

The news comes in the care of Bishop Gardiner, who makes his way to the high altar, then turns to the assembled throng, "God be thanked for your prayers. For He has heard them, and the Queen has turned the corner. Her fever is receding, and the doctors have high hopes that she shall recover."

All about us, people are clasping each other's hands, and tears are being shed everywhere; but the atmosphere of celebration is more than Cromwell seems able to bear, and we hasten back to his apartments, where he stands for a while, his face in his hands, trembling rather.

"Thank God…" he whispers, eventually, "Thank God…"

William looks worried at first, until he discovers the news, and immediately fetches out a fine bottle of claret to celebrate. It does not take Cromwell long to recover his composure, and we are all seated before the fire, a cup of claret each. The Queen is recovering, the King has his longed-for son, and there is hope that, once she is in full health again, she shall be able to provide him with another. We have the time that we need to deal with Lamashtu, and we can now hope that she shall be destroyed before there is another babe to place at risk of her malevolence. I just need to find those damned jewels.

First, however, we have a Coronation to organise.


	20. A Coronation Surprise

We have been involved in planning to fight demons for so long now, that I had almost forgotten what it could be like to organise Court ceremonial. I am not directly involved, as I have no specific role - but as a Privy Councillor, I cannot avoid it as I might once have done. As Cromwell is at the forefront, it seems most unfair to leave him to deal with it all himself, so I offer what assistance I can. The rest of the Council, Suffolk excepted, seem more than happy to abandon their responsibilities upon him, however, and he seems to be almost never away from the offices, even at night. Thank God the raveners have not returned. Since he is so overwhelmed with work, I have been patrolling on his behalf, with Wyatt's help, and we have seen nothing.

Following her apparently miraculous return from the edge of death, Queen Jane has recovered completely and with remarkable speed, and is back at her King's side again. Henry calls her his 'Phoenix' now, and she has adopted it as her personal sigil in place of the gulls wings she once had. It is also, from now on, the sigil that we shall use in our communications with her.

As though Cromwell were not busy enough, the Court must remove back to Whitehall, in order to be in close proximity to the Abbey, as the King does not wish his recently recovered Queen to lodge at the Tower prior to her coronation. With the Lord Chancellor occupied almost entirely with organising, and funding, the celebrations and the ceremony, it is Wriothesley who takes the move in hand, and ably organises it with the same degree of efficiency that would be expected from Cromwell. Being thoroughly involved with the Coronation, I, too, am not obliged to concern myself with the move, as the entire weight of organisation seems now to have been placed on my, Cromwell's and Suffolk's shoulders. The rest of the Council wave papers about, argue pointlessly, and leave as soon as they can after the King has returned to his chambers. At least Thomas Cranmer has been given the opportunity to arrive - as a monarch is crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury, no matter how much Gardiner wants to do it. He is pleased to be back at court - for he and Cromwell are great friends - and his presence adds an extra pair of hands to the small committee that only expands to full size when the King is present.

Now that everything is as much in place as possible, there are still a few days left before the celebrations begin. Being back at Whitehall, where I have been lodged in chambers very similar to those I left when we transferred to Hampton, I am finally able to visit the Library to see what Molly has done in my absence, and perhaps sift through some papers myself to catalogue them in hopes of finding something useful.

Goodwife Dawson is happy to see me, and I am quickly ushered inside, as the weather is rather chilly now that November has begun. Rather than be plied with ale and bread, I head straight into the Library, which I have not seen for several months. Oddly, I miss it, rather as a parent misses an errant child.

_Finally. I thought you were never going to come back. Where the hell have you been? You've been at Whitehall for nearly a fortnight!_

"Good evening to you, too. Eminence." I reply. There is no point in making excuses, as that will just irritate him, "If you could just stop being rude to me, I can get on with finding more information on those Jewels you didn't find anything out about."

Wolsey laughs again, _You did very well, Richard. Very well indeed - you recognised that I could use your living soul as a vessel - and gave me the impetus to break through that infernal barrier to get to you. It seems that you are not a complete dunce after all. I can only ask your forgiveness for the injuries that were landed upon you during my fight with Lamashtu._

"That was unexpected," I admit, "I had people thinking that I had angered a mistress - and I had to attend the Prince's baptism looking as though I had collided with an elephant."

 _I am pleased that I am wrong._ Wolsey adds, more quietly, _You have risen to the challenge - and you are truly worthy of the title of Second to the Raven. It may be that there is more information about the blade that Cassandra sought out for you - for it is an item that Lamashtu recognises - and one that seems to hold a fascination for her. Therefore it must be powerful to some degree. It would be useful to know why it has been granted to you_.

I had forgotten that - Lamashtu seemed most amused that I did not know what I held in my hand; and she mentioned that I knew nothing of its power. Whatever that power is, it would be useful to know of it _before_ I need to use it, so that is something to add to my list of items to be researched.

 _I shall leave you in peace, Second._ Wolsey says, as I browse papers, _But I reserve the right to insult you with impunity._

"I look forward to it."

* * *

The day of the Coronation dawns with a crisp frost and bright skies that promise a sunny, if cold, day. As Privy Councillors, we shall have fairly prominent positions in the congregation; but as we are not Peers, we shall be required to remain in the Nave. Only those of noble blood shall be granted entry to the Quire to view Queen Jane as she is crowned in the wide space of the Crossing.

John has found a fine doublet in a shade of blue that is suitable to my status without violating the Sumptuary laws: the sleeves slashed with a paler blue, and embroidery details in gold thread about the collar and cuffs. That, with one of my heavier, fur-trimmed simarres for warmth, and a feathered blue bonnet, should mark me out as being of some consequence without making me look too ostentatious. It does not do, after all, to outshine the Queen.

I know that Wyatt shall also pull out his finest clothing, even though he is not a Privy Councillor; the Queen has invited him to sit with us, however, so most shall probably think that he is. I only hope that Cromwell does not wear black - as no one else is doing so, and this is meant to be a happy occasion. That said, I am not sure that he has anything in his closet that is _not_ black.

Fortunately, while he is wearing his finest simarre, which _is_ black, his doublet is a dark green that is just far enough from being black to not be commented upon, while his upper hose is of the same hue, though his long boots are also black. He wears his chain of office, and carries a black bonnet, as he hates wearing hats unless he is hunting and wishes to conceal his face. For once, he is not a Raven, sartorially speaking.

We take our places in the Abbey, and the wait begins for the Royal couple to arrive. With the weather so chill, and the Queen riding in an open chariot, the King has insisted upon an enormous quantity of ermine to keep her warm - another expense that obliged Cromwell to scrabble frantically amongst the accounts to find funds to pay for it. Thank God it isn't raining.

Trumpets suddenly bray out a mighty fanfare, and we all rise to our feet, as the King and Queen follow the Archbishop into the Abbey. We shall not see much of what is to happen, but we know each detail intimately, as we have been so involved in the organisation of it. Anne's coronation, for all its pomp and ceremony which was - truth be told - magnificent, was not remotely as spectacular as this promises to be. Thanks to the manner in which she achieved her Crown, certainly there were very few crowds out to see her when she processed through the streets - their love for the displaced Queen Katherine keeping them away. Judging by the roar of people from outside a few moments past, the number of people is far greater for Queen Jane. How fickle the people of London can be: meek and gentle she may be - and patient, too; but nonetheless Jane's place on the throne - like her predecessor's - had been held by another who was removed to clear the seat.

Henry did not need to insist upon a prominent role for his daughter, as Cromwell had that in mind from the beginning. Following their rapprochement in the Queen's bedchamber, the Lady Mary has begun to regard him with a warmth that none of us expected, though, fortunately, not akin to the embarrassing ardour she displayed when under the influence of the malevolence. She is the chief of the maids carrying the Queen's train, and she shall be responsible for taking care of all the Queen's requirements throughout the ceremony, both ceremonial and personal. Her joy is almost palpable, and I have no doubt that the cheers were as much for her as for her stepmother.

The procession moves through into the Quire and thence to the Crossing, where Jane shall be crowned in the august presence of Kings, and some of their Queens, though no longer the Confessor, for his shrine in the Sanctuary beyond has been dismantled and his remains interred elsewhere. We cannot see now, and Cranmer's voice is echoing so much that we can barely hear his words; but all watch with wrapt attention nonetheless, for all thought that this day would never come. God, what would have happened had she died? Would the King have married again? If so, who? After all, the marriage market is far narrower now than it might have been when he was younger and considered one of the finest princes in Christendom. Most princesses considered to be eligible would not wish to marry him - not of their own will, I am sure. He is not, it must be admitted, in his first flush of youth, and, while his ulcer is calm at the present time; when it is not, he is dreadful to be near, not just because of his hot temper, but because of the reek of putrefaction from the wound.

The choir are singing an anthem now, their voices rising up to the vaults. I find myself wondering again how on earth I am going to find Blue Fire and Red Fire. Now that the Queen is safe, that second problem seems to occupy my thoughts more and more - to the point that, even now, when I am meant to be concentrating on court ceremonial, I am consumed by it. Wyatt nudges me, and I hastily join the rest of the congregation as they stand.

The rest of the service passes in a strange amalgamation of concentration and distraction, as my thoughts about the jewels that we must locate continue to plague me. We have not heard from the House - so I do not know whether the search for them has even begun - much less whether or not they have been…

"God save the Queen!" people cry, startling me out of my reverie yet again, and prompting me to join in with the second and third such exclamation.

The trumpets bray again, and we do not have to wait long for the King and Queen to reappear. While she was - like Anne before her - formally crowned with the great Crown of St Edward, Jane now wears a fine crown that Henry commissioned specially for her: a jewel-crusted gold circlet with four half-arches rising over a red velvet cap and topped with a diamond encrusted monde and a delicate cross _patonce_. She is radiant, and we are all silenced by her. God, I think to myself yet again, what would we have done had she died?

As Privy Councillors, both Cromwell and I are obliged to participate in the procession that is to follow. Fortunately, unlike lesser officials, we are to ride; as the journey shall cover several miles, which would be most unpleasant in the boots that I am wearing. Besides, given the number of horses in the procession, I have no desire to spend the next two hours or so being obliged to dodge liberal piles of manure.

The noise of the crowd is astonishing. A mighty phalanx of cavalry leads the way, followed by the King aboard a fine black stallion, Jane at his side, seated on a milk-white palfrey girded with cloth of gold. Behind them are the highest lords of the land, and then the Privy Councillors. As most people have no idea who we are, and we are also on horseback, we are cheered like princes - though the greatest excitement belongs entirely to the royal couple that lead us.

Despite our best efforts to dress warmly, I am not the only one who is shivering by the time we return to Whitehall. Beyond the gates, behind us in Westminster, the populace are already taking advantage of the wine fountains and enormous quantities of celebratory victuals that are free for all to enjoy. I noted at the time he agreed to the expenditure, that Cromwell was far less scandalised over the cost of that.

The Queen's position has been confirmed, and is undisputed. Henry's opinion of himself has been heightened, and his first duty as King has at long last been fulfilled. All in all, the day has been a great success. I hope that tonight's festivities shall be equally enjoyed; it certainly cost enough.

We have an hour to wait before the feast is to begin, however, allowing me time to return to my quarters and attempt to regain some feeling in my hands and feet; spectacular though the procession was, the wind was cold, and any sense of triumph was swiftly quelled by the chill.

John answers a knock at the door, and admits Cromwell, who joins me beside the fire, rubbing his hands together briskly to warm them as he seats himself, "It is done, then." He says, looking more relaxed than I have seen him for a long time, "The Queen is crowned, and with none of the mutterings that accompanied Queen Anne to the Coronation Chair. Perhaps the Court shall finally know some peace."

"Please, God, yes…" I mutter, "I do not wish to go through an experience like that again."

"Such is the life of a Second, Richie." He smiles, "Which you have accepted fully and completely, have you not?"

I nod, "I still sometimes wonder what on earth possessed me to agree to your offer that night - but I do not regret it. Not for a moment."

"I am pleased." He says, then turns to me, "Are you still troubled by Zaebos?"

I look at him, startled, for I had quite forgotten that vile revenant, "No, Thomas. Not since that night in your bedchamber when I confessed that he had been plaguing me. I think that confession might well have expunged him - though it may also be that the events which followed have expelled him with equal facility." I think about it some more, "Though, I must say that I have had no bad dreams at all that I recall since that night - despite all that we have faced. I am not sure why."

"You are a Second, Richie. It has changed you - in some ways quite clearly, but not in others. It may be that your acceptance of the mission has driven bad dreams from your mind. Either that, or you are so tired from all the hunts we have undertaken that you do not remember them." He adds, smiling again.

"Now, _that_ I can believe." I regard him for a moment, "And what of you?"

He sits back in his chair, and sighs, "I came near to disaster, did I not? I had been silent for too long, and came close to destroying all. William has told me many times that it is not for me to hold myself responsible for all that is ill in the world, or in the Court. My Mission is of such importance that I feel I must carry it with an almost inhuman resolve - and I have served only to prove that such resolve is neither possible, nor sensible." He pats his chest, "And now I am required to wear this Rosary for the rest of my life. Had I not been so burdened by the guilt that I could not release, then I would not need it."

"And the Queen would be dead, as would our Prince." I remind him, "In some ways, Lamashtu played into our hands when she sent that malevolence against you. It required you to confront your guilt, enabled Tom to release his grief for the Lady Anne, and forced me to confront my doubts and fears over the choice I had made to be your Second. The injury it caused left you with protection from Lamashtu on two fronts - the rosary and the Life Debt, which you were then able to use to save the Queen. Her determination to destroy you gave us the very tools to defeat her; for had I not made that final step towards becoming a true Second, then Wolsey could not have come to me."

Cromwell smiles, "I think she fears you, Richie. And well she should - for you are dangerous, now."

"Only to her, I hope." Then I get up, "Come, Thomas - I am sure Tom has already found his way to the hall to begin the celebrations. Perhaps we should join him."

* * *

Coronation banquets would normally take place in Westminster Hall, but the King has decided that we shall stay at Whitehall, as the Hall there is larger, and he is most keen to ensure that as many people are given the chance to see his queen - and him - as possible.

The hall is crammed with satin and fur clad bodies, all waiting with eager anticipation for the Royal couple to arrive, and I must confess that I, too, am craning for my first view of them, for they are exchanging the garments they wore at the Abbey for new clothes, and I have no doubt that there shall be a large number of new jewels upon display as well, additional to those set upon Jane's crown. When Cromwell saw the bill for those, he nearly fell from his chair.

Wyatt has joined us again, as he was not obliged to take part in the procession, which pleased him immensely given the state of most of those who were required to walk, and he has also changed into something altogether more ostentatious, "Did you enjoy your ride?"

"We were cheered like heroes, Tom." I grin, happily, "For a while I could pretend that I was a a living god, and that we had saved all of Christendom. Then it got hideously cold and I thought my hands were going to freeze solid."

If I am anything to go by, then all present are ravenously hungry, and the smells of the victuals that await us are a torment. We cannot eat, however, until the King arrives and invites us to do so - and the royal couple is taking an age.

Then, at long last, we hear the screech of trumpets again, and the Garter King of Arms batters his staff to the floor, "His Majesty the King, and Her Majesty the Queen!"

It seems almost like a new parting of the red sea. Courtiers pull back and bow deeply as the Royal couple enter, both clad in white silk and taffeta thickly embroidered with gold thread and pearls. The Queen's train seems to stretch back behind her forever, and Mary is at the forefront again of the ladies who are to carry it - she on the Queen's right, Lady Rochford on her left. The jewels that so paled Cromwell are set upon a magnificent diadem that has replaced the crown the Queen wore in the procession. Formed from gold and diamonds, it is shaped like ears of wheat, for fruitfulness, and sprigs of mistletoe to signify everlasting life. It is truly encrusted with diamonds, and I can see why he was so shocked at the cost. Atop the Queen's head, however, it glitters and fires like a halo, and I can hear the gasps of amazement working their way back through the throng as people see it.

Those who are not to dine drift away as the King and Queen are seated at the head of the hall. As we are fortunate to be on the Privy Council, not only do we get to enjoy the feast, but we are seated in close proximity to the King and Queen, which also means that we are not too far away from the fire, as the hall is chilled by cold air from the river.

We dine on carp, salmon, mutton, beef and capon, while around us stewards pour out a never ending stream of wine. The frumenty is spiced and rich with nuts and fruits, while the bread still steams from its baking. I know I shall regret the amount I consume at some point, but even those who seem to hate us are friendly this evening, and the conversation is remarkably genial. Perhaps they are not drunk enough yet. Or maybe they are.

After two hours, while we are entertained by jugglers and musicians as people continue to reach for yet more food, the King rises and announces that his Queen shall now receive homage from all present. It is, to be honest, more to massage his pride than for her benefit, but still he stands with her, proud as a peacock, as a seat is placed in front of the table where they dined, and she is seated under a canopy of estate.

The highest lords are, not surprisingly, the first to greet their Queen, and do so with florid bows and not too many belches or farts. One elderly earl does have to be helped to one side, quite overcome by the beauty of his Queen, I am sure - either that or he is in dire need of fresh air from his overindulgence. As I am now feeling the effects of my own overindulgence, I am hoping that I do not have to wait for too long, as I could do with a walk myself.

Cromwell is called forth before I am, and he bows with a neatness that most of the more highly placed Councillors could take as an exemplar. He is one of the few to whom she addresses a few words - some have been so privileged - and she smiles as he kisses her ring before he backs away. I note quite a few jealous expressions from several lords who were not granted such a gift.

Then it is my turn. I approach, and bow, aiming as best I can to match Cromwell's in its tidy simplicity. I think I mostly succeed. The Queen smiles at me, "I see you have recovered yourself, Sir Richard. I am given to understand you took something of a fall recently."

"I did, your Majesty - but it was to a good purpose, and all was mended." I reply, as I know that she means Wolsey's fight with Lamashtu. The King, however, does not, so he remains in the dark.

I bow again, and kiss her ring. As I rise, she winks at me, which quite stops me in my tracks. And then I see it.

At the centre of the diadem is a jewel - that I had barely noted when I first saw it upon her head as I was rather dazzled by the multitude of diamonds. Now, however, I realise that it is a deep, rich blue - but, moreover, as the Queen leans forward, it comes more into the light and, for the briefest moment, I see it: a twisting pillar of ice-blue flame. Then she has moved, and it is gone - but then she moves back slightly, and it returns, as though it can only be seen in the most specific way, and I am placed just right to see it. My God…can it be? _Can it?_

Trying to cover my shock, I back away, politely, and then hurry away to the doors where Cromwell is talking to Wyatt.

"What is it?" Wyatt asks, "What have you seen?"

"My God…" I am still trying to find the words, "I think I've found it…"

"Found what?' Cromwell asks, bemused.

"The diadem - there's a sapphire upon it - and it contains a twisting flame. I think I have found Blue Fire…"

If it is true - and we have found the first of the Jewels, then we can be ready - and we can finally destroy Lamashtu. Dear God, we can really do it.

All we need to do now is find Red Fire. If we can.


End file.
